NEAL  NEFF'S 


NATIONAL  POEMS, 


COMPOSED  BY  A  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  LINE,  BELONGING  TO  THE  64in 

0.  V.  V.  I.,  OP  THE  2o  BRIGADE,  2o  DIVISION,    15iH 

ABUT  CORPS,  OP  GEN.  SHKRMAN'S  ARMY,  WHO, 

WHILE  AT  THE  FRONT,  IN  MOMENTS  OF 

IDLENESS,    WROTE   FOR   HIS 

OWN  AMUSEMENT. 


CINCINNATI: 

MOORE,   WILSTACH  &  BALDWIN,  PRINTERS, 

25  WEST  FOURTH  STREET. 

1866f 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congrew,  in  the  year  1865,  by 
NEAI,  NEFF, 

In  the  Clcrk'i  Office  of  the  DUtrict  Court  of  the  United  State*  for  the  South 
ern  District  of  Ohio. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Advertisement 6 

Preface,  or  Egotism 7 

Introduction 11 

The  Poet,  or  a  Muse  on  the  Muser ,...  15 

'Tis  Fate  to  Live,  'tis  Fate  to  Die 20 

Reverie  on  Fort  Sumpter 21 

The  Ship  of  State 24 

Lines  to  my  Wife 26 

The  Tomb  of  Calhoun 28 

Mystical  Musings 31 

Memories  of  Childhood 81 

Thoughts  on  the  Creation  of  the  World 33 

A  Wandering  Muse 35 

The  Soldier  Boy .,  38 

The  Tear  Drop  .., 41 

A  Song  for  the  Day 44 

The  Death  of  President  Lincoln 46 

The  Soldier's  Return 60 

The  Ring  Dove 58 

The  Georgia  Campaign 68 


PACK. 

The  Ladies  Fair  should  take  the  Air 69 

The  Grand  Review 71 

The  Emblem  of  Liberty— the  Eagle 74 

The  Nation's  Night 79 

The  Nation's  Day 86 

I  Think  of  Thee  and  Dream 91 

Freaks  of  Humanity 93 

The  Whippowil  on  Picket..., 98 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Samuel  Crooks 100 

Haunting  Thoughts  on  the  Death  of  A.  C.  Alexander 102 

The  Ghost  of  Ghickamauga,  a  Parody  on  Foe's  Poem  of  the 

Raven 108 

The  Angel  of  the  Depot,  or  what  came  of  a  Kiss..... 116 

He  Bid  Farewell  to  his  own  Right  Hand 145 

Views  and  Thoughts  on  the  Top  of  Kenesaw  Mountain,  Ga.  147 

A  Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  a  Fallen  Hero 152 

The  Battle  of  the  Fifteenth  Army  Corps  near  Atlanta,  Ga...  154 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

NEAL  NEFF'S  New  National  Poems,  "Written  while  serving 
in  the  Volunteer  Army  of  the  United  States,  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  "War  for  the  Union. 

BY   THE    AUTHOR. 

About  the  army  and  the  nation, 

Not  of  fancy's  wild  creation, 

But  of  the  truth,  a  muse  of  facts, 

Who  caught  the  thought  when  muskets  crack'd! 

Whose  romance  from  the  field  was  gleam'd, 
Beneath  the  shot  and  shell  that  scream'd 
Around  his  head  amid  the  slain, 
When  shot  new  ideas  through  his  brain. 

When  not  on  duty,  and  "  had  time," 

Threw  down  the  sword  and  wrote  the  rhyme; 

Was  only  a  captain  of  the  line, 

To  fight,  or  write  his  lines  in  rhymes 

'Tis  not  a  little  light  love  ditty, 
Which  to  some  might  sound  quite  witty, 
But  of  the  nation,  proud  and  free, 
In  songs  of  praise  for  liberty. 


Nor  prostituted  is  his  verse 
To  passion's  shrine,  to  make  men  worse, 
Nor  praise  his  follies,  but  condemn 
Tho  wicked,  sordid  acts  of  men. 

Man's  virtues  praise,  and  stimulate 
His  mind,  to  make  him  good  and  great ; 
The  softer  sex,  sweet  woman,  too, 
Since  both  the  plants  together  grew. 

A  few  bright  sheaves  of  golden  grain, 
Tinged  with  the  crimson  of  the  slain, 
Though  tender  nerves  may  sometimes  shock, 
Are  food  as  solid  as  the  rock. 

Which,  like  the  romance  from  the  front, 
Sometimes,  perchance,  is  chaste,  then  blunt, 
Whose  pictures,  drawn  to  life,  are  true, 
Of  the  nation  and  her  "  boys  in  blue." 


PREFACE,  OR  "  EGOTISM.' 


IN  offering  the  following  original  poems  to  the  public, 
the  author  feels,  with  an  acute  sensibility,  the  responsi 
bility  of  the  undertaking.  For  he  is  fully  alive  to  the 
fact,  that  nothing  of  a  depreciating  character  should  be 
allowed  to  further  corrupt  the  polite  literature  of  the 
present  age ;  and  that  at  least  the  sacredness  of  true  po 
etry  should^  entitle  the  muses  to  remain  inviolate  from 
deterioration.  But  if  he  has  nothing  to  add,  he  at  least 
hopes  not  to  detract  from  the  beauty  and  value  of  this 
branch  of  belles-lettres,  in  the  humble  volume  you  now 
hold.  And  notwithstanding  he  presents  the  work  to  the 
world  with  a  nervous  hand,  feeling  his  incompetency  to 
such  high  pretensions,  and  to  do  justice  to  the  variety  of 
subjects  of  which  it  treats,  he  at  the  same  time  feels  an 
assurance  that  when  the  circumstances  are  known  under 
which  it  was  written,  he  will  receive  the  charity  of  a  lib 
eral  and  manly  criticism.  The  fact  of  his  having  writ 
ten  the  poems  while  at  the  front,  amid  the  scenes  "which 
tried  men's  souls,"  and  of  his  having  nothing  for  refer 
ence,  save  an  old  Elementary  Dictionary,  may  plead 
something  in  his  behalf,  if,  indeed,  he  wished  to  plead  ; 
but  for  the  life  of  him,  he  can  not  see  why  Neal  Neff 


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should  not  have  as  good  a  right  to  write  poetry  aa  Byron 
or  Barns,  provided  it  be  poetry,  and  of  this  the  publio 
must  be  the  judge.  All  men  have  their  own  peculiar 
kinds  of  amusement  in  hours  of  idleness,  and  as  we, 
luckily  or  unluckily,  happened  to  have  a  disposition 
toward  poesy  (when  we  discovered  our  true  source  of 
pleasure),  found  our  happiest  amusement  among  the 
muses.  The  first  pieces  were  written  with  this  view 
alone,  under  the  following  circumstances,  which,  by  the 
way,  have  a  smattering  of  romance  : 

Having  received  a  severe  wound  in  the  right  leg,  on 
the  13th  of  December,  1864,  during  the  storming  of 
Fort  Macallister,  Georgia,  I  received  leave  of  absence 
for  thirty  days,  and  went  to  my  home,  in  Ohio  ;  got  an 
extension  of  leave  of  absence,  and  remained  at  home  five 
weeks  with  my  family.  On  the  9th  of  February,  1865, 
my  wound  being  sufficiently  healed,  I  started  again  for 
the  front,  arriving  at  Hilton  Head,  South  Carolina,  on 
the  20th  of  that  month.  Communication  not  being  open 
to  General  Sherman's  army,  which  by  this  time  was  much 
further  north  in  its  triumphant  march  through^the  Car- 
olinas,  I  went  to  the  modern  Babylon,  city  of  Charleston, 
partly  on  my  way  to  the  command,  and  partly  curiosity 
seeking,  there  to  await  the  opening  of  communication. 

Ag  the  veBsel'rounded  up^into  Charleston  harbor,  the 
battered  walls  of  old  Fort  Sumpter  loomed  up  in  the 
dim  distance  with  peculiar  interest.  Four  days  had  passed 
since  the  fort  jjhad  fallen  into  our  hands.  Thid^  was  the 
spot  where  the  great  war  of  the  rebellion  had  burst 
forth ;  since  which  time  the  pillars  of  the  temple  of  re- 


publican  liberty  had  trembled.  Around  this  spot  had  clus 
tered  the  memories  of  30,000,000  of  people  for  the  last 
four  years.  Beyond  the  harbor  were  the  battered,  black 
ened  and  crumbling  walls  of  the  doomed  city  of  treason 
and  destruction.  These  thoughts  were  impressive,  and 
haunted  me !  Two  days  after,  I,  in  company  with  oth 
ers,  visited  the  fort,  and  while  there  conceived  the  "Rev 
eries  of  Fort  Sumpter,"  which  I  wrote  immediately  after 
our  visit  to  the  fort.  This  being  my  first  piece,  which 
being  admired,  flattered  my  vanity  somewhat.  Then 
came  the  "  Ship  of  State ; "  then  the  "  Muse  on  the 
Muses;  "  after  which  I  awoke  up  in  a  world  of  poesy. 
I  hope  the  charm  may  continue,  as  it  is  the  most  fascina 
ting  exercise  of  the  mind  in  which  I  ever  engaged.  The 
author,  of  course,  does  not  deny  being  a  great  lover  of 
the  beautiful  of  nature  as  well  as  art,  and  an  observer  of 
men  and  things,  and  as  he  wrote  his  feelings  at  these  in 
teresting  times  and  places,  or  while  the  impressions  re 
ceived  from  the  eventful  scenes  of  life  and  death  at  the 
front  were  yet  vivid  in  his  imagination,  he  is  flattered 
that  they  will  be  appreciated  at  home. 

While  he  does  not  boast  an  imagination  sufficiently 
prolific  to  build  alone  upon  fancy,  he  is  persuaded  that 
where  he  has  a  foundation  in  fact,  that  he  has  a  suffi 
ciency  of  that  element  of  epic  art  to  enable  him  to  paint 
a  picture  of  life  with  living  colors.  "  Truth  is  stranger 
than  fiction,"  and  there  is  sufficient  romance  investing 
the  events  of  the  war  to  clothe  a  plain  history  of  facts 
with  great  interest.  But  when  such  thrilling  scenes  are 
described  with  the  gloomy,  yet  glowing  grandeur  of  an 
2 


10 

epic  poem,  their  real  life  shines  forth,  and  the  narrative 
becomes  doubly  fascinating.  The  army  is  the  most  fa 
vorable  place  to  study  the  peculiarities  of  the  human 
heart.  Amid  the  stirring  events  and  upheavings  of  a 
revolution,  the  foundation  strata  of  the  mind  ia  sure  to 
show  itself  upon  the  surface.  Some  men  may  dissemble 
their  true  characters  for  half  a  lifetime  in  the  ordinary 
pursuits  of  life;  but  in  times  "  that  try  men's  souls," 
when  we  live  an  "  age  in  a  minute,"  and  when  the  mem 
ories  of  a  lifetime  crowd  themselves  into  a  moment,  we 
are  sure  to  develop  the  peculiarities  of  the  mind  and 
heart  which  lie  latent  at  the  bottom  of  our  natures. 


INTRODUCTION. 


A  FEW  THOUGHTS  ON  THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

"  LIFE  is  made  up  of  the  aggregate  of  little  things." 
But  the  observing  traveler  on  the  path  of  life  will  see 
upon  either  hand,  among  the  profusion  of  little  things, 
many  a  rich  and  beautiful  gem  which,  if  he  treasures  up 
in  the  storehouse  of  memory,  will  in  time  accumulate  a 
mental  wealth  from  which  he  can  draw  the  riches  of  true 
beauty.  Poetry  consists  in  the  proper  association  of 
beautiful  ideas,  expressed  in  measured  strains  of  strong 
and  chaste  language.  This  is  one  definition  in  prose. 
In  poetry,  another  definition  might  run  thus  : 

'Tis  love  that  lights  up  the  life  of  the  lay 
Love  tarns  the  darkness  of  death  into  day  ! 

But  neither  of  these  definitions  are  sufficiently  compre 
hensive,  and  whether  either  of  them  would  include  the 
life  of  true  poetry,  depends  alone,  as  we  conceive,  upon 
the  subject.  Horrid  ideas  and  horrid  hate,  might  apply 


12 

more  properly  to  some  kinds  of  poetry,  and  yet  they 
might  be  the  true  essence  of  the  subject. 

Acute  sensibility  of  mind  is  an  indispensable  requi 
site  to  high  appreciation  !  Feeling,  indeed,  comes  nearer 
the  secret  than  anything  else.  A  high  appreciation  of 
the  beautiful  in  nature  and  art,  and  in  men  and  things, 
as  well  as  a  "  horrid  hate  "  of  the  opposite  in  everything, 
are  necessary  qualities  of  mind  for  graphic  description. 
Beautiful  imagery  aiid  strong  figures  are  the  strength  of 
happy  and  forcible  illustration.  Life,  love  and  senti 
mentality  constitute  the  principal'  essence  of  the  sympa 
thetic  and  sentimental  kind.  Wit  and  humor  that  of  the 
comical.  Patriotic  and  heroic  feeling  for  epic  poetry. 
Awe  and  sublimity  for  the  grand  and  magnificent.  While  a 
vail  of  melancholy  (thin  or  heavy,  as  the  subject  may  re 
quire),  should  be  felt  and  thrown  over  the  picture,  to  charm 
the  whole  with  the  gloomy  grandeur  of  its  lovely  shading. 
Lovelies,  not  latent,  at  the  bottom  ;  sweet  sensibility  the 
touchstone.  Deep  sensibility  comes  next  in  order ;  ready 
conception  and  language  the  main  structure,  wit  the  em 
bellishment  which  surmounts  the  whole,  while  fancy  and 
imagination,  soaring  at  the  top  of  the  tower  of  poesy, 
sees  the  world,  and  appropriates  from  the  great  mass  the 
gems  of  life,  or  peers  deep  into  the  darkness  of  death  ! 
This  tower,  standing  on  the  margin  of  the  "  vale  of  mel 
ancholy,"  constitutes  the  embodyment  of  true  genius  for 


13 

the  muses.  And  though  these  are  not  all,  yet  we  appre 
hend  them  to  be  the  indispensable  requisites  of  the  suc 
cessful  musing  mind. 

Now,  suggests  selfishness,  you  have  told  the  secret, 
and  mankind  may  all  turn  worshipers  of  the  heathen 
goddess  (mothers  of  muse  in  mythology),  and  flood  the 
world  with  such  a  wave  of  song  that  your  humble  efforts 
may  be  lost  in  the  great  ocean  of  music.  No  danger 
(old  miser),  since  it  is  conceded  that  very  few  minds  have 
the  above  qualities  with  sufficient  acuteness  and  intensity 
to  make  a  figure  in  the  poetical  world.  And  whether 
we  shall  be  reckoned  among  the  many  or  few,  is  imma 
terial.  We  shall  be  satisfied  if  we  shall  have  occasion 
ally  touched  that  tender  chord  in  the  human  heart,  which 
always  throbs  a  response  to  true  sentiment  and  beauty,  in 
the  great  and  heaving  bosom  of  the  body  politic. 


NEW   NATIONAL  POEMS. 


THE  POET,  OR  A  MUSE  ON  THE  MUSES, 

We  place  this  piece  first,  in  the  order  of  arrangement, 
on  account  of  the  subject,  although  it  was  written  sev 
eral  days  after  the  "  Reverie  on  Fort  Sumpter,"  and 
near  St.  Andrew's  Depot,  at  Charleston  harbor,  South 
Carolina. 

The  weary  day  with  night  is  blest ; 
This  side  o'  the  world  has  gone  to  rest ; 

'Tis  night,  and  all  is  still 
Save  one,  who  walks  his  chamber  floor, 
While  luring  thoughts  of  "  lyric  lore  " 

His  wakeful  hours  fill. 

Since  th'  rouses  are  his  passion  now, 
With  busy  brain  and  thoughtful  brow, 

He  sits  him  down  to  write. 
Now  come,  thou  goddess,  "  Mother  Muse," 
Thy  power  into  his  heart  infuse, 

Sweet  melody  indite. 


16 
I 

O !  thou  of  mythologic  lore, 
Thou  who  didst,  in  days  of  yore, 

Dame  Nature  wake  with  song, 
Come,  O !  come  his  heart  inspire, 
Light  up  his  soul  with  holy  fire  ; 

Thy  clarion  notes  prolong. 

Already  he  has  caught  the  glow 
Which  melts  the  soul  in  verse  to  flow 

"With  magic  through  the  pen. 
He  hastens  then  the  world  to  tell 
The  magic  of  the  mighty  spell 

"Which  lights  the  poet's  ken. 

But  right  amid  the  mighty  spell 
He  stops,  for  words  they  can  not  tell 

The  glory  of  th'  muse  he  feels. 
"With  wondering  gaze  he  looks  about 
For  words  in  vain ;  his  light  goes  out — 

A  chillness  o'er  him  steals. 

On  tired  limbs,  with  aching  head, 
'Mid  darkness  seeks  his  humble  bed, 

To  seek  in  sleep  repose. 
His  passion  haunts  his  drowsy  powers 
For  many  long  and  weary  hours, 

Ere  sleep  his  eyelids  close. 


17 


He  sleeps — the  body,  not  the  mind — 
The  spirit  still  to  muse  inclined ; 

He  sweetly  sleeps,  and  smiles ; 
He  dreams,  sweet  visions  greet  his  eye, 
Glimpses  of  immortality 

His  weary  brain  beguiles. 

Then  mounting  high,  his  soul  doth  rise 
To  hear  the  muses  of  the  skies. 

On  fancy's  wing  he  flies. 
What  ravish  most  his  ears  and  eyes, 
Are  songs  and  birds  of  Paradise — 

Sweet  birds  of  Paradise. 

Of  birds  of  song  which  floated  there, 
Most  glorious  note  and  plumage  fair, 

Was  Genius — this  her  name  ; 
The  song  she  sings  doth  never  die 
In  men  of  mind,  nor  in  the  sky ; 

Her  song  itself  is  fame. 

The  sweetest  bird  which  there  did  sing, 
Most  ample  heart  and  breast  and  wing, 

Was  Love,  divinely  fair, 
She  tuned  the  harp  of  silver  string, 
Swept  by  the  hand  of  Israel's  king  ; 

She  sang  an  angel's  air. 


18 


A  smaller  bird  did  sing  and  twit, 
Her  eye  and  plume  with  fire  was  lit ; 

On  Fame  she  perch'd  and  sit, 
And  when  on  joyous  wing  she  flit, 
She  always  made  a  happy  hit ; 

This  sparkling  bird  was  Wit. 

* 

Imagination,  proudest  bird, 

On  highest  keys  and  wings  she  soar'd, 

Of  changeful  form  and  plume. 
She  sang  of  fortunes,  fairies,  fame ; 
Her  thousand  songs  we  can't  name, 

For  want  of  time  and  room. 

This  happy  soul  then  caught  the  notes 
Thus  warbled  from  those  silv'ry  throats, 

His  clarion  goblet  fills. 
This  nectar  draught  he  then  did  drink, 
But  saved  a  part  of  it  for  ink, 

Their  pinions  took  for  quills. 

Then  with  these  trophies  hastes  away, 
E'en  down  to  earth  ere  break  of  day ; 

Down  to  that  humble  bed 
Where,  sweetly  sleeping,  smiling  lay 
That  almost  lifeless,  worthless  clay  ; 
Then  quickens  heart  and  head. 


19 


Up  jumps  the  poet,  all  on  fire — 
He's  found  the  living  lute  or  lyre 

A  song  of  life  he  sings  ; 
He  strikes  harp  of  living  strings, 
Which  Love  and  Wit  and  Genius  brings ; 

From  this  his  music  springs. 

% . 

With  thrilling  thoughts  he  hastes  away 
To  greet  the  gleam  of  rising  day, 

Now  looming  up  in  the  east, 
First  sent  by  Sol's  soft,  silvery  stream 
Of  light,  and  the  glorious  golden  gleam 

His  swelling  soul  to  feast. 

There's  music  in  the  birds  and  bowers, 
And  sparkling  dewdrops  on  the  flowers — 

The  poet  sings  all  day. 
A  harp  himself  of  many  strings, 
From  out  of  which  his  genius  brings 

The  life-like  luring  lay. 

Sees  music  in  the  morn  and  mountain, 
Flowing  from  the  fervid  fountain 

Of  mystic  musing  mind  ; 
Then  call  it  not  a  lightly  thing, 
If  he  doth  muse  and  write  and  sing, 

For  poetry  is  divine. 


20 


His  soul  illumed  by  heavenly  light, 
He  sings  a  land  of  beauty,  bright, 

By  saints  and  angels  trod. 
Sings  of  man,  the  musing  creature  ; 
Sings  himself  clear  up  through  nature, 

Right  up  to  nature's  God. 

He  sings  and  sings,  both  night  and  day- 
A  holy  thing  the  living  lay — 

He'll  sing  himself  away  ; 
And  when  on  earth  he  leaves  his  clay, 
He'll  sing  again,  we  humbly  pray, 

He'll  sing  in  endless  day. 


'TIS  FATE  TO  LIVE,  'TIS  FATE  TO  DIE. 

Twice  twenty  times  the  checkered  years 
Their  checkered  seasons  round  have  rolled, 

Since  light  and  life  and  doubts  and  fears 
First  waked  to  sense  this  time-tossed  soul. 

What  memories  of  this  checker'd  life 

In  retrospective  views  uploom, 
Of  hope  and  joy,  woe,  war  and  strife, 

And  what  shall  be  life's  future  doom? 


21 


'T  is  fate  to  live,  'tis  fate  to  die, 
'T  is  fate  which  forces  us  along  ; 

Drives  life  to  death,  the  low  and  high, 
The  just  and  wicked,  right  or  wrong. 


REVERIE  ON  FORT  SUMPTER, 

The  circumstances  under  which  this  poem  was  written 
are  given  in  the  preface.  This  being  our  first  piece, 
the  others  will  follow  in  the  order  in  which  they  were 
written.  This  piece  rent  the  vail  through  which 

We  long  in  vain  had  tried   to  peer, 
And  felt  the  Holy  of  Holies  near. 

The  reader  will  please  excuse  the  egotism ;  for  we  hold 
that  all  men  have  sufficient  poetry  in  their  mental  com 
position  to  appreciate  and  love  it,  when  they  properly 
understand  it.  There  are  few  good  readers  of  prose, 
and  fewer  yet  of  poetry. 

On  Sumpter's  batter'd  walls  we  stood, 
In  contemplative  and  pensive  mood, 
While  anon  the  briny  waves  surround, 
And  lash  her  feet  with  a  surging  sound. 

The  dear  old  flag  is  waving  o'er 
The  ramparts,  as  in  days  of  yore ; 


22 

While  white-winged  seagulls  sweeping  round, 
Make  us  feel  this  is  holy  ground. 

"What  memories  of  her  checkered  past 
Crowd  around  us  thick  and  fast ; 
The  memories  of  her  varied  fate, 
Caus'd  by  malignant  treason's  hate. 

First  when  Anderson's  noble  band, 

'Mid  starving  want,  implored  the  land ; 

The  Star  of  the  "West,  in  mercy's  train, 

"  "With  bread  for  the  hungry,  plow'd  th'  main." 

From  Moultrie's  port  the  smoke  upcurPd, 
She  at  our  flag  a  missile  hurl'd, 
And  the  thunder  of  that  gun  afar 
Sounded  tocsin  of  civil  war. 

Then  treason,  Oh !  the  dreadful  tale, 
Storm'd  these  walls  with  iron  hail ; 
Our  flag,  which  ne'er  before  had  fell, 
"Was  lowered  to  these  imps  of  hell. 

The  goddess  of  liberty  hid  her  face, 

For  this  mournful,  deep  disgrace; 

The  heart  of  the  nation  throbb'd  and  thrill'd, 

"With  horror,  alarm  and  vengeance  filled. 

Four  long  years  of  a  dreadful  war 

Hath  scourg'd  this  land,  both  near  and  far ; 


23 


This  land  accurst  by  sin  and  slave, 

Which  sought  through  hate  a  nation's  grave. 

But  slavery,  with  her  whips  and  chains, 
To  curse  mankind,  no  more  remains ; 
The  grave  she  sought  for  freedom's  corse, 
She  fills  herself,  with  mute  remorse. 

The  stern  decree  of  God,  through  man, 
Has  broken  the  rod,  has  burst  the  ban 
Which  gloom'd  our  sky,  disgraced  the  age, 
And  dimm'd  the  glory  of  history's  page. 

From  henceforth  now,  the  march  of  mind 
Shall  not  be  crush'd  by  bigots  blind 
To  justice  and  the  rights  of  man, 
Secured  to  us  through  God's  great  plan. 

Through  rivers  of  blood  we  arrive  at  last, 
Through  judgments  untold  for  sins  of  the  past, 
To  liberty's  shrine,  which  truly  shall  be 
"  The  land  of  the  brave  and  the  home  of  the 
free." 


24 


THE   SHIP   OF   STATE 

Was  written  about  the  10th  of  March,  1865,  while  lying 
in  camp  near  St.  Andrew's  Depot,  South  Carolina.  The 
subject  was  conceived  by  the  memory  of  the  first  two 
verses,  which  are  included  in  the  quotation  marks, 
which  we  had  noticed  in  a  newspaper  in  January,  1864. 
The  ship  had  not  yet  reached  the  shore,  but  we  saw  her 
coming,  and  finished  the  poem.  The  points  in  the 
piece  were,  of  course,  conceived  by  reflecting  on  the 
history  of  the  war,  and  the  difficulties  through  which 
the  government  passed  in  her  efforts  to  sustain  national 
life  during  the  dark  days  of  the  rebellion. 

"  In  eighteen  hundred  sixty-one 
"We  thought  the  country  was  undone ; 
In  eighteen  hundred  sixty-two 
The  nation  had  all  it  could  do. 

In  eighteen  hundred  sixty-three 

The  Ship  of  State  was  still  at  sea; 

In  eighteen  hundred  sixty-four 

The  good  ship  proudly  neared  the  shore." 

In  eighteen  hundred  sixty-five 

She  in  the  harbor  did  arrive, 

And  anchor' d  safe  from  treason's  hate ; 

We  hail  our  noble  Ship  of  State. 


25 


She'd  sailed  for  fourscore  years  and  more, 
On  every  sea,  from  shore  to  shore; 
Her  ensign  to  the  breeze  unfurl'd, 
Was  light  and  hope  to  all  the  world. 

Whilst  riding  proudly  on  the  main, 
A  storm  was  gathering  o'er  the  plain ; 
From  off'  the  sunny  South  it  came, 
With  dark,  portentious,  frightful  mein. 

Another  danger — unwise,  'tis  true, 
To  traitors  turned  part  of  her  crew — 
The  cause  of  mutiny  so  bold, 
Was  human  freight  within  the  hold. 

The  storm  came  on,  'mid  darkness  howl'd, 
In  traitor  hands  the  rigging  foul'd ; 
The  lightnings  flashed,  the  thunders  roared, 
'Gainst  friend  and  foe  was  drawn  the  sword. 

O'er  mountain  waves  the  ship  did  reel, 
On  deck  was  heard  the  clash  of  steel, 
And  blind  to  justice,  woe  or  weal, 
The  traitors  tried  to  part  her  keel. 

Raged  battle  and  storm  in  wild  tumult, 
And  doubtful  was  the  great  result ; 
The  captain,  strong  through  heaven's  power, 
Stood  by  the  wheel,  controll'd  the  hour. 
3 


Bring  up  from  the  hold  that  freight,  he  said, 
And  up  came  Sambo,  Cuft*  and  Ned ; 
How  strange,  indeed,  to  human  ken, 
This  sable  freight  then  turned  to  men. 

Then  bravely  through  the  bloody  fight 
They  proved  their  claim  to  manhood's  right, 
To  liberty,  which  was  their  cry, 
Since  for  the  ship  they  dared  to  die. 

Thence  turned  the  tide  of  storm  and  battle, 
Of  clashing  steel  and  thunder's  rattle ; 
Kind  heaven  still  controls  her  fate, 
Our  noble,  glorious  Ship  of  State. 


LINES  TO  MY  WIFE, 

This  little  poem  was  written  March  15,  1865.  We  were 
about  to  write  a  letter,  and  ran  it  off  into  poetry.  We 
fancy  it  will  be  appreciated  by  soldiers  who  were  in 
the  service  many  months,  and  even  years,  some  of 
them,  without  seeing  their  good  wives  at  home. 

Eliza,  my  own,  my  dearest  wife, 
The  partner  of  lot  and  life, 
Be  not  surprised  if  I  should  yearn 
For  muses,  and  a  poet  turn. 


27 


The  partner  of  my  youthful  joys, 
The  mother  of  my  little  boys, 
Will  surely  in  her  heart  excuse 
The  weakness  of  this  little  muse. 

If  love  and  sentiment  and  wit 
In  happy  verse  can  make  a  hit, 
To  thee  I'll  sing  my  humble  songs, 
To  her  to  whom  my  heart  belongs. 

Then  may  good  health  and  spirits  btess, 
Thy  shadow  and  beauty  ne'er  grow  less, 
And  beauty  of  thy  queenly  ways 
Grace  thy  household  all  thy  days. 

Since  bread  and  meat  you  have  a  store, 
And  friends  to  greet  you  at  the  door ; 
With  wood  and  water  a  good  supply, 
And  home  to  keep  you  warm  and  dry. 

Since  God  has  gave  you  cheerfulness, 
My  hearth  and  home  with  joy  to  bless, 
I  pray  that  you  may  live  content, 
Nor  for  my  absence  long  lament. 

Virtue,  prudence,  and  gratitude 
To  Him  from  whom  is  all  our  good, 
Are  graces  which  I  hope  combine 
To  adorn  those  lives  of  thine  and  mine. 


28 


Then  when  this  "  cruel  war  "  is  o'er, 
This  dire  rebellion  is  no  more, 
The  Union  and  the  laws  jrestored, 
I'll  quit  the  field  and  sheath  my  sword. 

When  staid  the  bloody  hand  of  war, 
And  rising  again  the  nation's  star 
Of  hope  and  joy  to  human  ken, 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men. 

When  white-winged  peace  shall  hover  o'er, 
Just  like  she  did  in  days  of  yore, 
This  year,  I  hope  and  believe  't  is  true, 
I  will  return  to  the  boys  and  you. 


THE   TOMB   OF   CALHOUN, 

Thoughts  suggested  while  wandering  amid  the  ruins  and 
dismal  destruction  of  the  city  of  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  where,  near  the  center  of  St.  Michael's  old 
moldering  churchyard  is  the  tomb  of  Calhoun;  in 
cluding  a  soliloquy  at  his  grave. 

On  a  still  Sabbath  morning  we  wandered  alone, 
Far  away  among  strangers,  away  from  our  home, 
Down  the  dark  dismal  streets  of  the  "  City  of 

doom," 
Where  the  glory  of  Babylon  lies  in  the  tomb. 


, 


29 

And  dismal  destruction,  like  a  funeral  pall, 
Hangs  in  just  judgment  o'er  the  fire-black'd  wall, 
While  even  the  air,  fumed  with  pestilence  foul, 
Bears  the  wing  of  the  bat  and  the  hoot  of  the 
owl. 

My  wandering  steps  led,  near  the  hour  of  noon, 
Down   to   an  old   churchyard,  all  shrouded  in 

gloom, 
Where,  in  the  center  of  which,  is  an  old  dark 

tomb, 
And  in  the  slab  that  covers  it  ia  engraved  Cal- 

houn. 

Once  thy  proud  genius,  in  the  councils  of  State, 
Mingled  in  beauty  with  the  good  and  the  great ; 
But,  not  like  the  genius  of  Webster  and  Clay, 
Thy  glory,  like  thy  dust,  is  fading  away. 

What's  this  that  hath  torn  up  the  earth  'round 

thy  head, 
And  crush' d  the  gravestones  of  more  innocent 

dead? 
'T  was  the  shafts  of  destruction  by  a  nation  thus 

sent 
To  crush  the  foul  treason  Calhoun  did  invent. 

Thy  mistaken  genius  hath  kindled  the  flame 
Which  consumed  the  glory  of  thy  once  proud 
name ; 


30 

Thy  genius  shone  brightly  once,  covered  with 

fame; 
Now  shrouded,  like  thy  dust,  with  gloom  and  with 

ehame. 

The  shell  that  came  howling  in  its  fury  so  wild, 
Which  there  hath  exhumed  the  poor  bones  of  a 

child, 

In  this  cruel  carnage  of  war  and  of  strife, 
Was  sent  by  the  nation  to  save  her  own  life. 

How  many  white  bones  are  thus  bleaching  to-day, 
So  far  from  their  homes  and  their  kindred  away, 
In  this  heaven-cursed  land  of  slavery  and  lust, 
Which  boasted  the  genius  of  Calhoun  and  his 
dust. 

From  thy  sad  fate  we  learn  a  deep,  lasting  lesson, 
Since  thy  genius  hath  been  a  curse,  not  a  blessing : 
That  genius,  though  bright,  must  be  righteous 

and  just, 
Or  its  glory  thus  fade  and  die,  like  thy  dust. 

> 
Says  charity,  stop  now,  nor  traduce  thus  his 

name, 
Since  slavery  hath  curs'd  both  his  genius  and 

fame, 

For  posterity  will  read  of  the  darkness  and  gloom, 
Of  the  dismal  destruction  which  enshroudeth  his 

tomb. 


31 


MYSTICAL  MUSINGS. 

Nearly  every  word  of  the  same  line  commencing  with  the 
same  letter,  combining,  at  the  same  time,  measure, 
rythm,  sense,  sentiment  and  a  moral. 

'Mid  mystical  musings  o'er  the  mind's  mighty 

maze, 

Puzzled  and  perplexed,  yet  its  powers  we  praise ; 
Through  trials  and  troubles,  through  triumph  of 

thought, 
To  trustingly  turn  to  the  truth  we  our  thoughts. 

From  forums,"  from  fountains,  from  frown  and 

from  favor, 

Great  garners  of  good,  the  good  gratefully  gather, 
While  th'  weak,  wicked,  worthless  with  wonder 

ask  why  ? 
Duties  doom'd  to  distortion,  do  dwindle  and  die. 


MEMORIES   OF  CHILDHOOD, 

Addressed  to  Brother  Abe,  from  St.  Andrew  s  Depot, 
March  20,  1865. 

I  remember,  Abe,  when  we  were  boys, 

Far  happier  then  than  kings, 
For  childhood's  joys,  without  alloys, 

Its  true  contentment  brings. 


32 

When  down  below  the  orchard  where, 

Ifear  by  the  orchard  hill", 
We'd  gather  there  bright  flowers  rare. 

And  play  in  the  little  rill. 

You  remember,  too,  the  little  brook 

We  waded,  craw-fish  hunting, 
When,  the  minnow  took  the  little  hook, 

Both  hearts  and  fish  went  jumping. 

When  Sis,  and  Mary,  Dan,  I  and  you, 

As  Patrick  said,  "  Ale  smaleing," 
And  how  we'd  do  with  the  old  canoe, 

Down  where  we  went  a  sailing. 

When  one  cold  Sabbath,  in  sliding  trim, 

Slipped  oft'  to  th'  creek  a  skating; 
But  the  ice  was  thin  and  we  broke  in, 

And  then  went  home  a  shaking. 

The  bottom  field  with  acres  broad, 

I  know  to  mind  you  bring, 
Where  we  plowed  and  hoed,  and  sweat  and  grow'd 

In  the  sunny  days  of  spring. 

But  now,  dear  Abe,  we  are  bald  and  gray, 

Have  wives  and  children  too, 
Who  are  just  as  gay,  when  at  their  play, 

As  then  were  I  and  you. 


33 


The  mem'ries  of  sweet  childhood  days 

Sweet  mystic  musings  bring 
Of  youth's  happy  ways,  in  lute-like  lays, 

We  dream  and  think  and  sing. 


THOUGHTS  ON  THE  CREATION  OF  THE  WORLD, 

Six  thousand  years  or  more  ago, 

By  sacred  history  it  is  said, 
Vain  man  and  all  things  here  below 

Were  by  the  great  Creator  made. 

A  six  million  years  and  more 

Have  rolled  their  seasons  round  since  then, 
Says  mystic  geologic  lore, 

Were  made  all  things,  the  world  and  men. 

The  deep-laid  layers  of  earth's  strata, 
Says  proud,  erring,  reasoning  man, 

Earth's  own  history  gives  the  data 
Of  when  the  world  and  all  began. 

Of  matter  not  a  single  mote, 
To  the  ocean,  the  air,  the  earth, 

Of  wealth 's  been  added  not  a  groat 
Since  creation's  glorious  birth. 
4 


34 


A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day 
To  Him  who  made  this  world  of  ours  ; 

Then  chase  thy  doubts,  vain  man,  away, 
Nor  let  them  curse  thy  few  short  hours. 

And  if  to  God  a  million  years 

Of  time  are  but  a  single  day, 
Should  that  excite  thy  doubts  and  fears, 

To  drearily  tread  thy  gloomy  way  ? 

If  not  a  groat  of  matter  since 

Her  birth 's  been  added  to  her  wealth, 

This  one  great  fact  should  then  convince, 
She  did  not  thus  create  herself. 

Or  if  six  million  years  'twould  take 
To  thus  create  a  single  pound, 

How  long,  friend,  would  it  take  to  make 
The  mighty  worlds  old  Sol  surround  ? 


35 


A  WANDERING  MUSE  TO  CHASE  THE  "  BLUES," 

It  was  now  the  20th  of  March.  Just  one  month  had 
elapsed  since  we  landed  at  Hilton  Head.  Communi 
cation  to  General  Sherman's  lines  was  not  yet  open, 
and  time  began  to  drag  very  heavily  in  camp. 

We'll  sing  to  th'  spirit  of  the  muse, 
To  pleasure  bring  or  chase  the  "  blues," 
Since  pleasure  of  the  lasting  kind 
Depends  upon  the  frame  of  mind ; 
Then  to  the  lovely  muse  we  bring 
Our  sweet  but  lowly  offering ; 
Instead  of  sadness,  we  will  sing, 
And  to  the  winds  our  troubles  fling, 

Is  there  not  music  in  the  breeze, 
And  beauty  in  these  proud  pine  trees, 
And  in  this  hanging  moss,  which  floats 
Pendant  from  these  mighty  oaks, 
Which  half  conceals  their  giant  arms 
With  beautiful  romantic  charms, 
Thus  forming  festoons,  garlands  grand, 
In  this  bright,  sunny  southern  land  ? 

There  is  beauty  in  the  azure  sky, 
Love  and  music  in  the  soft  blue  eye, 
And  beauty  in  the  violet  too, 
And  wit  in  the  eye  of  darker  hue. 


36 


There  'B  music  in  the  birds  aud  bowers, 
Both  love  and  music  in  the  flowers, 
And  swiftly  fly  the  lively  hours, 
If  we  but  use  the  musing  powers. 

How  foolish,  then,  to  sit  and  bode, 
Or  feel  the  cares  of  life  a  load, 
Since  all  depends  upon  the  mind, 
To  trouble  or  amusement  find; 
Then  do  not  be  of  that  dull  kind, 
To  beauty  and  duty  always  blind  : 
Bays  reason,  then  I  must  agree,  it 
All  is  lovely  if  we  only  see  it. 

Then  since  we  have  the  power  to  choose 

Either  to  take  or  that  refuse, 

This  to  condemn  or  that  excuse, 

To  trouble  muse,  or  chase  the  "  blues," 

We  surely  should  select  the  kind 

Of  employment  which  improves  th'  mind, 

So  that  we  may  not  fall  behind 

In  this  wise  age  of  fast  mankind. 

For  this  is  the  most  wise,  fast  age 
That  ever  passed  upon  the  stage 
Of  time ;  upon  all  History's  page, 
Ever  sang  by  poet,  saint  or  sage. 


37 

The  barbarism  of  ages  past 
Is  dying  now  (the  curse  of  caste), 
Beneath  the  tread  of  armies  vast 
Dissolves,  and  slavery  dies  at  last. 

"We  are  merging  from  the  thrall  and  gloom 
Which  buried  genius  in  the  tomb 
Of  ignorance ;  but  freedom's  boon 
Now  turns  midnight  to  brighter  noon ; 
Thus  age  on  age  of  time  rolls  on, 
A  brighter  age  .begins  to  dawn ; 
When  is  the  gloom  of  prejudice  gone 
The  battle's  fought,  the  victory  won. 

'Mid  dread  commotion,  war  and  strife, 
We  now  attain  a  higher  life ; 
The  poor  and  weak  we'll  not  enslave, 
And  bury  justice  in  the  grave ; 
Just  because  he  is  black  or  bright, 
Has  wool  for  hair,  red,  brown  or  white, 
And  thus  to  torture  right  to  might, 
Because  we  can,  or  did  through  spite. 
Our  muse  thus  turned  ('t  was  incidental), 
Thus  to  end  so  sentimental. 


38 


THE   SOLDIER   BOY, 

On  a  bright  summer  day,  in  the  year  sixty-one, 
"With  marshal  array,  and  the  fife  and  the  drum, 
While  secessionists  say,  "  The  Union's  undone," 

A  soldier  boy  enlisted. 

He  staid  not  for  the  cries  of  his  sisters  and  mother, 
Nor  the  deep-drawn  sighs  of  father  and  brother, 
Nor  the  tear-dimm'd  eyes  and  sobs  of  another ; 

All,  all  he  thus  resisted. 

His  grandsire  had  told  how  he    fought  in  his 

youth, 

And  although  so  old,  was  yet  proud  of  that  truth ; 
And  the  boy's  heart  grew  bold ;  do  you  wonder, 

forsooth, 

That  the  boy  grew  bold  and  brave  ? 
That  beautiful  flag  of  broad  stripes  and  bright 

stars, 

By  traitors  made  mad,  by  the  gods  of  such  wars, 
"Was  displaced  by  a  rag,  call'd  the  "  Stars  and  the 

bars," 

In  the  land  of  the  master  and  slave. 

Just  look  at  him  there,  in  his  new  suit  of  blue, 
So  young  and  so  fair,  yet  so  manly  and  true, 
With  his  soldierly  air,  and  bright  musket  too, 
All,  all  to  fight  for  the  Union. 


39 

He  stands  up  and  fights  for  the  land  of  his  birth, 
For  liberty's  rights,  and  for  liberty's  worth, 
And  to  save  from  the  blights  of  dark  slavery's 
curse 

The  land  of  his  birth  and  the  Union. 

"With  light  heart  and  gay,  to   the  tune  of  the 
banner, 

He  marches  away,  thro'  the  wood,  o'er  the  manor, 

Where   in  butternut   gray,  and   in   threat'ning 
manner, 

Stand  a  host  of  traitor  rebels. 

With  a  firm,  proud  tread  he  marches  thus  for 
ward, 

And  heeds  not  the  lead  which  o'er  him  is  show- 
er'd; 

On  the  field  of  the  dead  he  scorns  the    name 
coward, 
And  his  firm,  quick  step  he  doubles. 

His  bright  musket  tells  on  the  "Reb"  skirmish 
er's  breast 

As  he  staggered  and  fell,  his  mean  treason  and 
crest ; 

And  forward,  with  a  yell,  he  now  charges  the 
rest, 
His  comrades  and  he  for  the  Union. 

O'er  many  a  hard  field  his  musket  he  bore, 


40 

'Mid  the  clashing  of  steel  and  the  cannon  s  loud 

roar; 
When  wounded,  he  reel'd,  and  then  lay  in  his 

gore, 

'Mong  dying  and  dead  for  the  Union. 

To   the  ambulance  then,  on  "  stretchers "  he  's 

taken, 

And  by  ambulance  men  he's  jostled  and  shaken 
To  the  hospital,  when  he  feels  quite  forsaken, 
As  long  wait  his  wounds  to  be  dress'd. 
When  at  length  they  are  dress'd,  all  bandaged  and 

bound, 
He  feels  himself   bless'd  that  he's  not  under 

ground, 

Tho'  little  his  rest,  and  tho'  painful  his  wound, 
He  talks  and  jokes  with  the  rest. 

At  length  he  gets  well,  and  to  battle  again, 
Where  the  ball  and  the  shell  doth  howl  o'er  the 

slain, 

Which  in  fury  doth  swell  like  storms  o'er  the 
plain, 

He  fights  again  for  the  Union. 
He  fought  well  and  bravely  for  liberty's  worth, 
'Gainst  the  power  of  slavery,  which  brought  trea 
son  forth, 


41 

And  scorned  the  low  knavery  of  its  friends  at  the 
North ; 

He  fought  for  freedom  and  Union. 

Yes,  he  scorn'd  the  mean  praise,  the  voice  of  the 

prater, 

Whose  sympathies  raised  the  hopes  of  the  traitor, 
And  thus  dug  the  graves,  more  numerous  and 

greater, 

For  boys  who  fought  for  the  Union. 
His  three  years  are  over,  but  he  veterans  and  goes 
From  friends  and  that  other,  toward  the  land  of 

his  foes ; 
And  when  the  war  is  over,  and  ended  its  woes, 

He  returns  with  freedom  and  Union, 
To  greet  the  smiles  of  his  sisters  and  brother, 
And  receive  the  blessings    of   his  father  and 

mother, 
And  to  ta  share  the  life  and  love  of  that  other. 


THE   TEAR   DROP, 

Written  on  board  the  government  transport  "  Champion," 
en  route  to  Wilmington,  North  Carolina. 

'Tis  not  the  wit  in  the  bright  black  eye, 
Which  starts  the  tear  or  heaves  the  sigh  ; 
'Tis  not  the  lofty  marble  brow, 
For  not  of  beauty  I'm  thinking  now. 


42 


'Tis  not  the  beauty  of  thy  face, 
Nor  beauty  of  thy  queenly  grace, 
Nor  of  those  rosy  lips  which  greet, 
Disclosing  rows  of  pearls  complete 
Within  thy  radiant,  smiling  lips, 
With  sweeter  nectar  than  which  sips 
The  bee  from  out  the  flower's  cone, 
To  fill  his  rows  of  honeycomb. 
'Tis  not  of  this,  I  do  declare, 
Although  so  lovely  and  so  fair ; 
'Tis  not  of  beauty  I  would  sing, 
But  of  sweet  love,  a  holier  thing. 

Yes,  'tis  of  high  and  holy  thought, 
With  more  than  "fairy  beauty  fraught;" 
It  is  of  the  immortal  mind, 
Where  love  and  virtue  always  find 
Affection  true.     The  bliss  of  life 
Doth  bless  the  husband  and  his  wife. 

I'm  thinking  of  that  early  morn 
Thou  must  have  felt  so  lone  and  lorn, 
While  twinkled  yet  the  morning  star, 
I  th*  third  time  left  my  home  for  war. 

I'm  thinking  of  those  heavy  sobs 
Which  woke  me  up  with  nature's  throbs; 
I'm  thinking  of  that  heavy  sigh, 


43 


And  of  that  lovely,  tear-dimm'd  eye, 

"When  furlough'd  days  had  pass'd  well  nigh ; 

That  morn  we  parted,  you  and  I. 

Oh !  I  could  not,  could  not  say  "  good-by  ;" 

I  could  not,  and  I'll  tell  thee  why. 

Thy  tear-drop  fell  upon  my  cheek, 

Which  chok'd  me  so  I  could  not  speak. 

Oh !  I  fancy  that  I  feel  it  yet, 
It  sometimes  feels  so  cool  and  wet, 
When  mind  runs  back  to  that  sad  morn, 
It  feels  like  life,  so  glowing  warm. 

That  farewell  kiss  and  tear-drop  too, 
That  morn  which  parted  I  and  you  ; 
That  tear-drop  I'll  ne'er  fain  forget, 
It  lingers  on  my  cheek  here  yet, 
And  sinking  down  into  my  heart, 
Bids  kindred  tear-drops  rise  and  start. 

That  scalding  tear-drop  on  my  cheek, 
Its  burning  mem'ry  makes  me  weep. 

Says  one,  "Tear-drops  in  song  are  plenty; 
Who  cares  if  there  are  more  than  twenty  ? 
Nor  if  sweet  tear-drops,  true  to  nature, 
Fall  like  rain-drops  on  the  paper." 


44 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  DAY,  THE  14TH  OF  APRIL,  1865, 

This  poem  was  partly  written  at  Wilmington,  North  Car 
olina,  and  finished  on  board  the  "  Crescent  City,"  on 
the  way  'to  Morehead  City.  The  day  was  celebrated 
in  honor  of  the  re-raising  of  the  flag  on  Fort  Sump- 
tor.  In  the  midst  of  the  rejoicing,  we  received  the 
news  of  the  fall  of  Lee. 

The  glory  of  this  glorious  day 
Awakes  to  life  the  muse's  lay ; 
The  thunder  of  that  hundredth  gun 
Awakes  the  land  to  peace  begun. 

The  trembling  zephyrs  waft  the  sound 
Of  freedom's  music  floating  round ; 
"While  thundering  cannon  shake  the  ground, 
Through  reverberating  hills  resound. 

This  self-same  day,  four  years  agone, 
The  nation's  heart,  with  gloom  forlorn, 
Is  throbbing  for  the  flag  which  falls 
To  treason's  hate  o'er  Sumpter's  walls, 

Oh  !  the  misery,  death  and  human  woe 
That  since  we've  seen,  four  years  ago, 
Since  that  glorious  ensign  fell, 
The  sage  or  poet  ne'er  can  tell. 


45 


"That  self-same  flag,  four  years  ago, 
To  treason's  rag  was  brought  so  low  ; 
By  the  self-same  hands  'twas  raised  so  oft, 
O'er  Sumpter  again  is  reared  aloft. 

Thrice  happy  be  this  happy  day, 
For  the  thunder  of  the  guns  away, 
O'er  the  broad  land  from  sea  to  sea, 
Thunder  the  fate  and  fall  of  Lee. 

The  lightning  flashes  o'er  the  wires, 
Exulting  news  of  freedom's  fires, 
Kindling  and  bursting  into  flame, 
To  freedom,  glory — to  treason,  shame. 

The  glory  on  the  breezes  swells, 
Music,  lightning  and  thunder  tells, 
A  great  and  glorious  peace  begun ; 
How  slavery  fought,  but  freedom  won. 

A  thousand  chiming  bells  peel  forth 
To  sound  the  praise  of  freedom's  worth ; 
Those  peeling  bells,  without  remorse, 
Are  tolling,  too,  for  slavery's  corse. 

Millions  of  souls  are  praising  God, 
Who  stays  the  strokes  of  Justice's  rod ; 


; 

46 

Through  sacrifice  atonement 's  made, 
And  the  bloody  hand  of  war  is  stayed. 

And  looking  up  through  future  ages, 
By  poets  sung,  and  penn'd  by  sages, 
We  read  the  history,  sing  the  lay, 
Whose  words  shall  praise  this  happy  day. 

Hundreds  of  millions  of  unborn  men, 
Up  through  the  vista  of  poet's  ken, 
Self-governed  millions  their  voices  raise, 
And  in  freedom's  glory  sing  its  praise. 


THE  DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN, 

Written  at  Qoldsboro',  North  Carolina,  on  receipt  of  the 
news  of  this  tragic  event.  What  a  strange  coincidence 
of  time !  It  will  be  remembered  that  it  was  on  Good 
Friday,  and  on  the  14th  of  April. 

Of  him  who  stood  foremost  in  this  mighty  age, 
Whose  goodness  is  praised  by  the  saint  and  the 

sage, 
While  his  great-hearted  kindness  the  poet  doth 

sing, 
Like  the  widow's  tw.o  toites,  our  tribute  we  bring. 


A  long  night  of  darkness  is  passing  away, 
Athwart  the  broad  land  comes  the  glorious  day 
Of  peace  and  of  joy  and  of  glory  and  gladness, 
But  the   brightness   of  morning   is   turned  into 
sadness. 

Yes,  the  joy  of  the  nation  is  turned  into  gloom, 
As  true  freedom's  flowers  just  burst  into  bloom; 
But  his  virtues,  like  flowers,  doth  cast  their  per 
fume, 
And  like  a  halo  of  glory  they  light  up  his  tomb. 

Mysterious  Providence,  inscrutable  ways, 
The  victim  selected,  on  the  altar  he  lays, 
The  altar  of  sacrifice,  freedom's  oblation, 
Whose  blood  thus  atones  for  the  sins  of  the  na 
tion. 

On  the  same  day  the  Saviour  of  mankind  was 

slain 
For  doom'd  fallen  man,  his  pardon  to  obtain ; 

The  ball  of  the  assassin  enters  his  brain, 

' 

A  martyr  he  falls  in  the  morning  of  fame. 

How  strange  the  coincidence,  the  time  wheti  he 

falls, 

On  the  day  over  Sumpter's  battle-scarred  Avails 
Was  both  lowered  and  raised  the  flag  oftjfifp  free, 
Laid  low  in  the  morning  of  his  glory  should  be. 


48 

That  citadel  home  of  magnanimous  thought, 
With  a  nation's  best  interest  of  humanity  fraught, 
By  a  murderous  missile  which  crashes  his  brain, 
With  his  heroes  of  freedom,  he  lies  with  the  slain. 

Yes,  he  falls  with  his  heroes,  our  chief  magistrate, 
Whose  giant  mind  piloted  the  great  ship  of  state 
Through  the  battle  and  storm  of  the  long  dark 

night, 
To  the  glorious  morning,  so  peaceful  and  bright. 

Says  the  soldier  and  patriot,  whose  bosom  doth 

swell, 
Is  there  not  some  "  chosen  curse  "  which  justice 

can  tell, 
To  punish  the  murderer  whose  garments  doth 

smell 
Like  the  fumes  of  the  pit,  so  red  hot  from  hell. 

Yes,  his  name  shall  be  curs'd  in  all  future  ages, 
Through  the  tablets  of  time,  on  history's  pages, 
When  gone  to  his  place,  the  black  soul  of  this 

Booth, 
When  millions  unborn  shall  read  the  sad  truth. 

Since  the  days  of  the  Saviour,  no  greater  than  he 
Graced  the  great  halls  of  State,  so  noble  and  free, 
So  kind  yet  so  firm,  and  such  powers  of  soul, 
To  seek  for  the  nation  the  good  of  the  whole. 


49 

His  mantle  of  charity,  like  a  halo  which  glows, 
Melting  the  prejudice  in  the  hearts  of  his  foes, 
And   when    vengeance  is  his,  this    mantle  he 

throws 
O'er  the  land  of  the  South,  to  heal  their  sad  woes. 

How  strange  and  how  sad — Oh  !  it  seems  like  a 
dream, 

That  his  blood  should  thus  swell  the  deep  crim 
son  stream 

Which  flow'd  like  a  river,  through  the  land  to 
the  sea, 

Through  the  land  of  the  brave,  now  the  home  of 
the  free. 

Yes,  he  died  with  his  heroes,  his  country  to  save, 
And  the  high  hopes  of  mankind  from  liberty's 

grave, 
That  the  soil  be  not  curs'd  by  the  blood  of  the 

slave, 
Now  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 

brave. 


50 


THE   SOLDIER'S  RETURN, 

Written  on  the  march  from  Raleigh,  North  Carolina,  to 
Petersbug,  Virginia,  and,  as  we  then  thought,  on  our 
way  home. 

Perchance  through  the  measure  of  muse  you  may 

learn 

Of  the  end  of  the  war  and  the  soldier's  return; 
"With  victory  he's  coming  from  the  plains  of  the 

South, 
To  his  friends  of  the  Union  in  the  glorious  North. 

But  language  will  fail  to  portray  the  meeting 
Of  dear  ones  at  home,  of  the  glorious  greeting 
He 's  thought  of  so  long  on  fields  far  away, 
Where  armies  confronted  in  deadly  array. 

Perhaps  his  blue  coat  is  all  tatter'd  and  torn, 
His  musket  or  saber  all  batter'd  and  worn  ; 
Perhaps  his  shoulders  and  limbs  and  feet  may  be 

sore, 
But  his  heart  beats  as  fast  and  as  warm  as  before. 

Now  hunt  quick  your  dark  holes,  you  copperhead 
snakes, 

In  your  treasou-curs'd  mouths,  your  forked- 
tongues  take, 


51 

That  treasou-split  tongue,   and   venom-spitting 

mouth, 
For  the  soldier  is  coming  red  hot  from  the  South. 

•  -    .      " 

Copperheads,  butternuts,  all  traitors  take  heed, 
For  he 's  been  killing  snakes  of  a  much  better 

breed  ; 

He  is  sworn  to  the  service  of  old  Uncle  Sam  ; 
His  blood  is  red  hot,  and  he  don't  care  a . 

On  his  shoulder  he  bears  the  musket  he  bore 
O'er  the  fields   of  the  dead,  'mid  the  cannon's 

loud  roar, 
Which  was  sprinkled  with  lead  and  reddened  with 

gore, 
But  his  heart  beats  as  fast  and  as  warm  as  before. 

He  comes  'neath  the  flag  of  broad  stripes  and 

bright  stars ; 
He 's  crushed  treason's  rag,  called  the  stars  and 

the  bars ; 

That  beautiful  ensign,  the  flag  of  the  free, 
Now  waves  o'er  the  land,  from  the  North  to  the 

sea. 

Perhaps  that  beneath  that  old  blue   blouse  he 

wears, 
Some  marks  of  the  price  of  liberty  he  bears ; 


52 

Like  stars  on  his  person  are  glorious  scars,      * 
Glorious  trophies  he  won  in  liberty's  ware. 

The  scenes  he  pass'd  through  have  not  made  him 

kind, 

For  he  dro.ps  a  sad  tear  for  the  soldier  behind, 
Whose  wife  and  whose  little  ones  are  looking  so 


Looking  for  a  father  who  lies  far  away. 

As  he  marches  thus  homeward  his  thoughts  are 

of  joys 
When  he  meets  his  poor  wife,  his  girls  or  his 

boys 
Or  of  one  he's  been  thinking  with  hopes  that 

were  bright, 

Through  the  battle  and  storm  of  the  long  dark 
night. 

Perhaps  that  old  blouse  was  once  matted  with 

gore, 

From  the  service  it  's  seen  all  tatter'd  and  tore, 
And  his  body  itself  is  batter'  d  and  wore, 
But  his  heart  is  still  throbbing  pit-patta  as  before. 

Yes,  gaily  he's  coming,  though  weary  and  wore, 
For  the  burden  of  hardships  and  battle  he  bore, 
While  thinking  of  soon  seeing  his  friends  once 

more, 
His  heart  beats  faster  and  warmer  than  before. 


53 


THE   RING   DOVE, 

This  poem  was  also  written  on  the  grand  march  from 
Raleigh  to  Petersburg.  The  present  of  a  pet  ring 
dove  had  been  made  by  a  father  to  the  author's  better 
half,  some  two  years  before  the  war,  and  the  singularly 
sad  habits  of  this  peculiarbird,  together  with  the  cir 
cumstances  of  the  war,  suggested  the  subject. 

And  ere  the  column  stopp'd  to  rest, 
The  heart  and  mind,  by  muses  blest, 
Had  wove  a  lay  of  epic  love ; 
Then  resting,  wrote  the  "  Cooing  Dove." 

Our  old  ringdove,  up  in  his  cage, 
Whose  downy  coat  is  brown'd  with  age, 
Who,  like  some  prophet,  saint  or  sage, 

Goes  cooing  every  day. 
Up  near  the  stairs  or  chamber  door, 
Who,  like  some  saintly  lord  of  yore, 
Goes  cooing,  cooing  evermore, 

His  plaintive,  mournful  lay, 

He  came  from  out  the  sylvan  bower, 
With  plaintive  song  of  mournful  power, 
One  sad  and  lonely  summer  hour, 

Some  five  years  back  or  more ; 
Was  from  his  mate  by  tempest  driven, 
Then  by  a  father's  hand  was  given, 


54 


Who  soon  exchanged  this  earth  for  heaven, 
To  sing  fore  verm  ore. 

What  makes  thee,  dovey,  sad,  forlorn  ? 

It  is  not  for  a  grain  of  corn, 

To  coo  and  coo,  and  mourn  and  mourn  ? 

Come,  dovey,  can't  you  stop  ? 
'Tis  not  for  food ;  thy  little  cup 
With  broken  grains  is  well  fill'd  up, 
And  of  water  many  a  sup 

To  fill  thy  little  crop. 

Why  sing  so  sadly,  gentle  dove, 
Can  not  thy  measure  lively  move? 
Perhaps  of  disappointed  love, 

Or  of  thy  long  lost  mate. 
Thy  notes,  like  some  prophetic  lore, 
Which  tell  of  things  that  come  before, 
Thus  cooing,  cooing  evermore, 

They  sound  like  dismal  fate.     . 

For  five  long  years  thy  mournful  song 
Goes  cooing,  cooing  all  day  long. 
O !  dovey,  don't  you  think  it  wrong 

To  mourn  so  and  be  sad  ? 
Is  it  thoughts  of  thy  long  lost  mate, 
Revolving  through  thy  little  pate, 
Which  dismal  bodings  do  create, 

And  almost  make  ns  mad  ? 


55 


Or  is  it  for  heroic  dead, 

In  storms  of  iron,  hail  and  lead, 

For  country  who  their  blooddid  shed, 

Thou  mournest  every  day  ? 
Is  this  the  theme  thou'st  mourning  o'er ; 
Fields  of  the  dead  and  human  gore, 
In  prophetic  vision  seen  before, 

To  tune  thy  dirge-like  lay? 

Is  it  for  those  who  far  away 

From  home  and  friends  in  death  do  lay, 

Who  on  the  bloody  battle  day 

Were  numbered  with  the  slain? 
Yes,  'tis  for  that,  we  fainly  trow, 
For  those  he  mourns,  we  know  it  now, 
For  rising  up  he  makes  a  bow, 

And  coos  and  coos  again. 

For  the  poor  wife  and  little  ones, 
Who  in  their  humble,  saddened  homes 
A  husband  and  a  father  mourns, 

Doth  tune  thy  mournful  strain  ? 
Is  it  for  the  wife  and  orphan  too, 
Which  makes  thee  thus  so  strangely  do  ? 
Thy  mournful  song  to  coo  and  coo  ? 

He  bows,  and  coos  again. 

0  !  dovey,  stop  thy  plaintive  art, 
Nor  make  sad  tears  to  rise  and  start; 


56 


Thy  mournful  notes  most  break  my  heart, 

And  almost  burst  my  head. 
Come,  sing  a  song  of  life  and  gladness, 
And  stop  thy  lornful  lay  of  sadness, 
Nor  drive  my  whirling  brain  to  madness, 

Like  ghosts  of  hauating  dead  ! 

•— 

Is  it  alone  that  lives  were  lost, 

Just  tor  the  price  which  freedom  cost? 

His  sagely,  knowing  head  he  tost, 

Denying  with  disdain. 
Is  it  because  the  truest  blood 
Did  mingle  in  one  mighty  flood, 
In  sacrifice  for  country's  good? 

He  bows,  and  coos  again. 

Treason  will  soon  be  dead  and  gone, 
The  mind  of  man  is  marching  on; 
A  brighter  age  begins  to  dawn ; 

This  truth  the  sage  should  know. 
Traitors  now  have  had  their  warning, 
Rising  now  the  glorious  morning, 
Freedom's  goddess  thus  adorning; 

Come,  dovey,  can't  you  crow  ? 

Are  fallen  now  the  nation's  foes, 
And  ended  now  the  country's  woes, 
Since  freedom's  day-star  upward  rose  ? 
Up  on  his  perch  he  goes ! 


57 


Come,  my  prophet,  saint  or  dove, 
Come  sing  a  song  of  life  or  love, 
How  passing  strange,  ye  gods,  by  Jove ! 
He  spreads  his  wings  and  crows  ! 

Strange  bird  !  like  saintly  lords  of  yore, 
With  such  prophetic,  sagely  lore, 
To  tell  of  things  that  come  before, 

So  ghostly  evermore  ! 
Thus  cooing,  bowing,  mourning  o'er, 
Fields  of  the  dead,  and  human  gore, 
NOT  yet  for  freedom's  price  deplore, 

Cooing  forevermore. 

A  soldier's  homeward  march  pursuing, 
In  fancy  heard  the  ring  dove  cooing  ; 
His  mind  then  courted  muses  wooing, 

The  mystic  strain  of  yore. 
While  marching  t'ward  his  home  once  more, 
The  music  lifts  each  foot  before, 
His  musing  mind  went  roaming  o'er 

The  fields  of  mystic  lore. 

Don't  start,  my  friends,  the  tale  is  true, 
The  soldiers  have  their  doves  who  coo, 
The  winners  now  go  home  to  woo, 

To  see  their  doves  again  ; 
With  poetic  ear  and  mystic  view 

6 


58 


They  see  and  hear  the  dovey's  coo, 
Doth  straightway  then  the  muses  woo, 
A  lovely  mystic  strain. 

All  the  dovey's  cooing,  cooing, 
Soldier  boys  pursuing,  sueing, 
Going  home  a  wooing,  wooing, 

Just  like  the  days  of  yore. 
All  the  world  so  strangely  doing, 
Cooing,  pursuing,  wooing,  sueing, 
Nor  the  soldier  ever  rueing 

The  mystic  musing  lore. 


THE   GEORGIA   CAMPAIGN, 

A   DREAM    WHICH   WAS   NOT   ALL   A   DREAM. 

'T  was  dark !  it  was  the  nation's  night 
"When  through  dark  clouds  the  lurid  light 
Sometimes  begloom'd  and  sometimes  bright, 

The  lurid  lights  were  gleaming, 
"WTien  Gog  and  Magog  met  in  fight, 
One  with  his  slavish,  hateful  spite, 
The  other  for  man's  noblest  right, 

And  many  then  were  dreaming. 


59 


We  dream'd — it  was  the  first  May  day, 
When  in  yore  was  wont  the  Queen  of  May 
To  deck  her  brow  with  garlands  gay, 

A  May  in  sixty-four. 
From  Northern  Alabama's  hills, 
From  off  her  plains  where  rip'ling  rills 
The  Tennessee's  broad  bosom  fills, 

A  living  stream  did  pour. 

A  column  long  and  strong  in  blue, 
To  freedom  and  the  Union  true, 
Did  thus  their  forward  march  pursue 

Through  hills  and  rills  and  fountains ; 
With  rolling  drums  and  fifes  a  screaming, 
A  hundred  thousand  muskets  gleaming, 
With  thoughts  of  queens  and  glory  dreaming, 

Toward  Lookout's  frowning  mountain. 

Round  Lookout's  frowning  battlement, 
Past  Mission  Ridge,  the  column  bent, 
All  with  one  purpose  still  intent, 

Intent  to  drive  the  foe. 
O'er  Chickamauga's  bloody  ground, 
Where  now  dead  silence  reigns  profound, 
In  little  heaps  all  scattered  'round, 

Are  hearts  and  heads  laid  low. 

From  thence,  and  through  Snake-river  Gap, 
Where  the  Alleghenies  overlap, 


60 


Whose  tow'ring  bights  are  sometimes  cap't 
"With  clouds  that  shroud  their  heads. 

The  muskets  then  began  to  crack, 

Bush-whackers  then  began  to  whack; 

Our  lead  and  iron  drove  them  back  ; 
They  went,  were  sent,  and  fled. 

At  Resacca  now  the  scene  enlarges, 
As  iron,  lead  and  flame  discharges ; 
We  storm'd  their  lines  with  gallant  charges, 

And  sent  them  on  again. 
"We  press'd  them  hard,  by  column  marching, 
And  heeded  not  the  sun,  though  scorching  : 
O'er  Georgia's  hills  the  column  arching, 

O'er  hill  and  rill  and  plain. 

They  next  confronted  us  at  Dallas, 

"With  their  usual  hateful  malice ; 

"With  too  much  lead  they  lost  their  ballast, 

Our  lines  they  charged  this  time  ; 
And  like  blind  horses  rush  in  battle, 
Amid  the  din  of  thunder's  rattle, 
They  charged  our  lines  and  fell  like  cattle, 

And  fell  with  broken  line. 

It  was  a  grand  and  awful  sight ; 
We  received  first  upon  our  right, 
"With  ball  and  shell  and  flashes  bright, 
'Twas  like  a  thunder  storm. 


61 


Came  sweeping  on,  the  battle's  din, 
Like  leaden  hail  on  woofs  of  tin, 
Che-whack  one  took  us  on  the  shin, 
'T  was  getting  rather  warm. 

Our  dream  thus  far  had  been  so  fair, 
Now  turns  to  horror  and  night-mare  ! 
It  was  so  horrid  bloody  there — 

The  pains,  the  groans,  the  blood, 
And  the  surgeon's  dissecting  bench, 
"Were  bones  and  limbs  from  bodies  wrenched, 
Both  day  and  night  with  blood  was  drench'd, 

With  the  living,  flowing  flood. 

Amid  the  stench  and  swarming  flies 
That  ere  the  wounded  soldier  dies, 
Fill  his  mouth  and  glassy  eyes, 

'Mid  pains  and  groans  and  shrieking, 
And  many  colored  lizards  leaping, 
And  many  thousand  creepers  creeping, 
Day  and  night  their  vigils  keeping, 

Peeping,  never  sleeping ! 

And  as  the  wounded  soldier  lies, 
When  courting  sleep  he  vainly  tries, 
With  burning  brain  and  sleepless  eyes, 

The  smell,  the  sounds,  the  sights, 
All  night  long  the  guns  are  popping, 


And  the  soldiers  dropping,  dropping, 
Nor  day  nor  night  were  ever  stopping ; 
Oh !  the  long  and  horrid  nights  ! 

Round  Kenesaw's  old  bloody  brow 
The  storm  and  battle  rages  now, 
Where  many  a  hero's  head  did  bow 

Around  this  bloody  mountain, 
Where  heaven's  lightnings  and  the  thunder 
Vied  with  battle's  raging  under, 
With  deadly  missiles  without  number, 

And  clouds  with  hearts  for  fountains ! 

And  rain  and  hail  and  blood  did  pour, 
'Mid  heaven's  wail  and  cannon's  roar, 
So  many  sank  to  rise  no  more ; 

Oh !  humanity  deplore  ! 
For  thirty  thousand  spirits  fled 
From  th'  marble  head  of  sinking  dead, 
Till  plains  and  hills  and  rills  were  red, 

Were  red  with  human  gore  ! 

Beyond  the  power  of  words  to  tell, 

The  pains,  the  sounds,  the  sights,  the  smell, 

As  horrors  on  each  other  swell'd 

O'er  humanity,  and  fell ! 
Horror  of  horrors  on  earth  foretold, 
The  sum  of  horrors  from  ages  old, 


63 


Express'd  the  best  in  one  word  told, 
That  awful  word  of  hell ! 

Our  chief  waked  up  then  and  look'd  about, 
And  with  his  soldiers,  brave  and  stout, 
March'd  to  the  right,  and  flank' d  them  out, 

From  out  behind  the  mountain. 
Their  retreating  columns  then  fell  back 
Across  the  bloody  !N"ic-a-jack, 
Where"  trunks  and  limbs  and  bones  did  crack, 
.     And  opened  still  the  fountain. 

O'er  th'  Chattahoochee's  bank  to  bank, 
On  pontoons  went  the  file  and  rank, 
With  gun  and  horse  and  saber's  clank, 

Beyond  the  flowing  flood, 
Which  like  old  Jordan's  waves  did  roll 
'Twixt  Israel's  chieftain  and  his  goal, 
The  last  stream  cross'd  by  many  a  soul, 

Who  for  freedom  shed  his  blood. 

Around  Atlanta  storms  now  rattle, 
'Mid  many  a  pitch'd  and  bloody  battle, 
Again,  like  horses  and  blind  cattle, 

They  charged  and  charged  and  fell, 
And  thirty  thousand  spirits  more 
Fled  from  those  fields  of  blood  and  gore, 
And  returned  to  battle  nevermore, 

While  cannon  sound  their  knell. 


64 

It  was  a  bloody,  dark* campaign, 

"With  mud,  and  blood,  and  hail,  and  rain, 

Nor  stayed  the  flood  of  clouds  nor  slain, 

Nor  stayed  them  day  nor  night ; 
But  for  a  hundred  days  and  more 
The  leaden  hail  and  blood  did  pour, 
And  like  Collodon's  field  of  gore, 

So  raged  the  bloody  fight. 

Again,  one  dark  and  gloomy  night, 
"Without  e'en  a  gleam  of  lurid  light, 
"Went  marching,  flanking  to  the  right, 

Before  "  old  Hood  "  should  know  it ; 
When  stumbling,  grumbling,  sleeping,  walking, 
Like  spectral,  midnight  ghosts  a  stalking, 
The  column,  with  obstructions  balking, 

O'er  streams  like  "  coons  to  go  it." 

And  ere  the  rebel  chief's  aware, 
While  dancing  with  the  rebel  "fair," 
He's  struck  with  horror,  or  nightmare. 

He  at  Jonesboro  was  flanked, 
"Where  we  arrived  and  "beat  his  time," 
And  established  there  our  chosen  line, 
And  straightway  then  did  dig  and  mine, 
And  mined  a  "  ditch  and  bank." 

Three  more  days  of  bloody  fighting, 
Of  battle's  rattle  and  livid  lightning, 


65 


"While  many  Rebs  the  dust  were  biting, 

Then  ceased  the  blood  to  pour. 
They  left  those  fields  of  blood  and  gore, 
As  they  had  done  from  fields  before, 
Many  to  fight  and  fly  no  more, 
To  fight  and  fly  no  more. 

Hark  !  "What  thunders  at  dead  midnight, 
With  rumbling  sounds  and  livid  light, 
O'er  Atlanta  looms  a  column  bright; 

'Twas  burning  ammunition ! 
The  loyal  soldiers  then  did  feel, 
The  nation's  glorious  coming  weal, 
As  through  dark  clouds  the  lights  reveal 

The  toil's  and  blood's  fruition, 

Our  nightmare's  horrors  then  did  turn 
To  pleasant  dreams,  as  you  may  learn, 
Like  Moses'  cloud,  the  light  did  burn, 

The  darkness  to  dispel. 
Directed  by  the  higher  powers, 
Atlanta  and  her  plains  were  ours, 
Dispelling  thus  the  gloomy  hours, 

When  proud  Atlanta  fell ! 

Another  fitful,  dreamy  cloud, 
For  the  moment  did  the  mind  enshroud, 
As  the  Rebel  chieftain,  vain  and  proud, 
"Did  cut  our  cracker-line." 


66 


At  Altoona,  when  he  made  a  dash, 
We  heard  the  thunder,  saw  the  flash, 
His  charging  columns  met  a  crash, 
"With  recoil'd  and  broken  Hue. 

"While  threat'ning  thus  our  rear  to  fight, 
Pillars  of  clouds  loom  up  most  bright ; 
More  southern  conquests  did  invite, 

Loom'd  up  toward  the  coast. 
And  then  this  loyal,  conquering  host, 
"Which  was  a  joyful  nation's  boast, 
March'd  thus  clear  though  t<5  Georgia's  coast. 

It  was  a  world's  great  boast. 

Those  columns  long  and  strong,  in  blue, 

To  freedom  and  the  Union  true, 

Did  again  their  forward  march  pursue, 

O'er  hill  and  rill  and  plain. 
The  eagle  spread  his  wings,  a  screaming, 
Freedom's  glorious  lights  were  gleaming, 
Again  of  queens  and  glory  dreaming, 

We  march'd  to  the  briny  main. 

Through  to  old  ocean's  surging  strand, 
Whose  wave  doth  lave  the  seething  sand; 
This  living  stream,  deep,  blue  and  grand, 

In  freedom's  might  did  pour. 
\Vhere  pendant  moss  from  giant  oak!> 
Tn  gloomy  grandeur  lightly  floats, 


67 


And  where  romantic  sylvan  notes, 
Blend  with  ocean's  distant  roar. 

Beyond  the  Ogeechee's  ample  fold, 
Whose  brackish  waves  to  ocean  roll, 
That  ere  we  reach  the  final  goal, 

A  fort  looms  up  and  frowns. 
Hard  by  the  river's  tide-swelled  breast, 
She  rears  her  proud,  defiant  crest, 
Walls,  works  and  ditches  in  strength  th'  best, 

With  guns  and  ports  all  round. 

McAllister  was  her  boastful  name, 
She  curs'd  this  name  of  better  fame, 
From  thence  doom'd  to  gloom  and  shame, 

For  torpedoes  mined  the  ground. 
The  Second  Division,  Fifteenth  Corps, 
Which  often  did  such  work  before. 
Was  sent  to  make  her  cannon  roar.- 

Our  line  drew  up  all  'round. 

Then,  ere  the  bugle's  forward  blast, 
Were  glances  pale  toward  comrades  cast; 
All  knew  it  was  the  very  last 

Of  many  that  must  fall. 
But  hungry  soldiers  want  "hard-tack," 
Was  breaking  then  old  treason's  back ; 
"  Forward,"  for  freedom  or  th«  wrack, 

Or  meet  a  cannon  ball. 


68 

The  line  now  moves  to  storm  and  fight , 
"  Steady,  the  center  and  the  right ;  " 
Now  from  the  ports  are  flashes  bright, 

And  soldiers  now  are  dropping. 
Forward,  brave  boys,  "we 're  going  in," 
'Mid  ball  and  shell,  and  battle's  din, 
When  they  plugg'd  us  in  the  other  shin, 

And  waked  us  up  a  hopping. 

Our  varied  wakeful  dream  was  true, 

The  gloom,  the  blood,  the  lights,  clear  through » 

The  parapet  with  Yanks  was  blue, 

Our  flags  and  blood  was  streaming, 
And  ere  was  hushed  the  battle's  sound, 
On  parapet  and  ditch  and  grouud, 
Were  dying  heroes  all  around, 

But  freedom's  lights  were  gleaming. 

Hark,  hark !  what  happy  shouts  we  hear? 
'Tis  a  joyful,  long,  exultant  cheer, 
For  many  miles  to  the  left  and  rear, 

The  romantic  welkin's  ring. 
Like  lightning  leaps  from  corps  to  corps, 
And  blends  with  ocean's  distant  roar, 
While  white-wing'd  peace  toward  the  east  flits 
o'er, 

And  freedom's  angels  sing. 


69 


On  lightning's  wings,  from  main  to  main, 
The  happy  land  takes  up  the  strain, 
"The  Anaconda"  is  cut  in  twain, 

Since  Gomorrow's  proud  gates  fell. 
The  nation's  nightmare's  horrid  spell 
Was  broken  through  the  crumbling  shell ; 
Let  earth  and  ocean's  praises  swell, 

For,  thro'  Heaven,  'twas  done  so  well. 


THE  LADIES^FAIR.SHOULD  TAKE  THE  AIR, 

I  would  I^were  a  bonnie  lass, 

"With  black  and  curl}''  hair ; 
I'd  romp  and  play  upon  the  grass, 

And  take  the  pleasant  air. 

"With  lofty  brow  and  bright  black  eye, 

And  round,  ruddy  cheek  . 
It  seems  to  me  I'd  never  sigh, 

'Twould  feel  so  very  sweet. 

Or  some  young  and  blue-eyed  girl, 

With  soft  complexion  fair  ; 
My  auburn  hair  in  waves  should  curl ;   \ 

I  know  I'd  take  the  air. 


70 


The  soft  and  balmy,  pleasant  air 
Should  tinge  my  blooming  cheek, 

Should  wave  my  auburn,  wavy  hair : 
I  know  'twould  feel  so  sweet. 

Then  if  I  was  a  fair  young  lady, 

With  all  a  lady's  charms, 
Of  the  boys  I'd  keep  a  little  shady, 

Nor  expose  my  breast  and  arms. 

Nor  too  much  expose  my  dainty  feet — 
Charms  half  conceal'd  most  fair; 

But  the  air  should  kiss  my  neck  and  cheek  . 
I'd  take  the  pleasant  air. 

Then  if  I  were  a  lady  matron, 

"With  husband  tried  and  true, 
To  damsels  I  would  be  a  pattern, 

And  teach  them  how  to  do. 

I  too  should  take  the  pleasant  air, 

Its  glowing  life  would  greet; 
It  should  wave  my  smooth  or  wavy  hair, 

And  kiss  my  brow  and  cheek. 

Yes,  I  should  admire  nature's  charms, 
Though  chaste  should  be  my  dress, 

For  'tis  her  mystic  nature  warms 
The  poet  or  poetess. 


71 


And  she  who  does  true  genius  feel, 
"With  grace  and  prudence  blest, 

Knows  that  her  charms  but  half  reveal'd, 
Do  charm  and  please  the  best. 

If  I  were  one  of  nature's  fair, 

With  dainty  hands  and  feet, 
I  would  surely  take  pure  nature's  air ; 

I  know  it  would  be  sweet. 

Yes,  the  ladies  fair  should  take  the  air, 

And  greet  its  living  heat ; 
'Twould  tinge  the  cheek  and  wave  the  hair, 

In  health  and  beauty  sweet. 


THE   GRAND  REVIEW, 

Held  at  Washington,  on  the  23d  and  24th  days  of  May, 
1865,  is  conceded  by  all  to  have  been  the  grandest 
military  display  that  the  world  ever  witnessed ;  at  least 
in  modern  times.  It  will  be  recollected  by  those  who 
witnessed  it,  that  on  either  side  of  the  street,  for  sev 
eral  squares,  the  seats,  one  above  the  other  (theatri 
cally  arranged),  were  crowded  with  ladies  and  gentle 
men,  who,  with  cheers  and  handkerchiefs,  flags,  flowers 
and  wreaths,  waved  a  welcome  to  the  war-worn  vete- 


72 

rans,  who  (returning)  had  so  gallantly  re-established 
their  country's  liberty.  Nor  will  the  soldier  ever  for 
get  the  evidences  of  gratitude  emblazoned  upon  ban 
ners,  with  mottoes  which  greeted  him  at  every  step,  as 
he  marched  amid  the  waves  of  this  grand  rolling 
stream,  at  company  front. 

'Tis  of  Columbia's  grand  reviexv, 
And  of  her  sons  in  freedom's  blue, 
We  indite  and  write  a  verse  or  two, 

With  freedom's  halo  o'er. 
Those  veteran  columns,  tried  and  true, 
For  freedom  fought  the  war  clear  through, 
Did  pass  their  chiefs  in  grand  review, 

This  living  stream  did  pour. 

This  living  stream,  strong,  free  and  grand, 

The  living  heroes  of  the  land, 

The  chosen  spared  of  heaven's  hand, 

'Neath  freedom's  light  went  streaming; 
For  two  whole  days  this  mighty  throng, 
In  surging  waves  did  roll  along, 
'Mid  music,  cheers  and  shout  and  song, 

With  victory's  halo  beaming. 

With  rolling  drums  and  fifes  a  screaming, 
Hundreds  of  thousands  of  muskets  gleaming, 
Tens  of  thousands  of  streamers  streaming, 
Streamed  all  around  and  o'er  us, 


73 


Through  the  channel  of  living  banks, 
That  on  each  side  the  surging  ranks, 
Were  grateful  greetings,  smiles  and  thanks, 
Like  glory  seem'd  before  us. 

And  while  the  surging  waves  did  roll, 

The  halo  seemed  in  victory's  goal 

To  enchant  and  thrill  the  raptur'd  soul, 

'Mid  music  and  cheers  and  song. 
From  th'  living  banks  to  th'  living  stream, 
Fell  flowers  and  laurels  on  the  gleam, 
And  like  Elysian  fairy  dream, 

On  the  gleam  was  borne  along. 

And  as  the  \vaves  thus  onward  roll'd, 
Liberty's  mottoes,  greeting,  told 
Their  sentiments  in  burnish'd  gold, 

While  wreath  and  flowers  did  fall. 
And  many  mottoes  welcom'd,  prais'd, 
And  told  of  fields  in  bloody  days ; 
But  of  all  around  and  o'er  was  raised, 

Atlanta  highest  of  all. 

Old  Sol  himself  in  glory  seem'd 
To  send  his  brightest  golden  gleam, 
To  burnish  the  living  banks  and  stream 

With  his  brightest,  burning  beam. 
But  the  noblest,  brightest  thought  of  all, 
While  wreaths  and  palms  and  flowers  did  fall, 


74 


Was  from  her  treason  and  her  thrall, 
The  nation  saved,  redeem'd. 

The  living  chiefs  of  war  and  State, 
The  heroes  of  Columbia's  great, 
With  reviewing  grandeur  seem'd  elate, 

Stood  with  enraptured  gaze. 
Upon  the  rolling,  surging  waves, 
Which  anon  they  call  Columbia's  braves, 
Because  their  blood  and  valor  saves 

Liberty  from  her  grave. 

And  as  the  current  stream'd  and  gleam'd, 
The  eagle  spread  his  wings  and  scream'd, 
'Mid  freedom's  glorious  halo  seem'd 

An  angel,  noble,  tall, 
With  great  broad  brow  and  smiling  face, 
And  stately,  noble,  bowing  grace, 
From  reviewing  grandeur's  higher  place 

His  smiles  o'er  the  stream  did  fall. 


THE  EMBLEM  OF  LIBERTY,  THE  EAGLE,  ON  THE 
4TH  DAY  OF  JULY,  1865, 

All  hail !  yes,  all  hail  to  this  glorious  day, 
Let  the  ladies  and  lords  be  joyful  and  gay," 
And  sages  and  poets  their  tributes  repay  ; 
Tis  the  birthday  of  the  nation. 


75 

All  hail !  to  this  glorious  fourth  of  July, 
When  our  unfledged  eagle  began  first  to  fly  ; 
Still  proudly  he's  sailing  and  rising  so  high, 
On  this  day  of  coronation. 

!N"urs'd  in  the  beginning  in  liberty's  nest, 

On  the  eloud-capp'd  summit  of  Plymouth's  proud 

crest, 
The  emblem  of  freedom  and  of  heaven's  behest, 

The  emblem  of  liberty  given. 
Fittest  emblem  indeed,  by  freedom  enshrined, 
The  pride  of  Columbia  and  hope  of  mankind, 
For  the   marching  of   armies   and  marching  oj 
mind, 

Proudest  bird  of  earth  and  of  heaven. 

Though  he  was  hatched  by  the  sun,  he  carried  a 
load, 

While  like  a  curse  in  the  form  of  Milton's  black 
toad, 

With  huge  whip  and  spurs,  thus  his  body  be 
strode, 
Which  avarice  of  lucre  did  bring. 

Too  strong  and  too  mighty  to  notice  the  thing 

Which  bestrode  o'er  his  neck  his  back  or  his 
wing, 

Like  an  adder,  anon  tried  to  poison  and  sting, 
As  it  clung  to  his  southern  wing. 


76 

And  although  he  carried  this  black,   foulsome 

load, 

On  his  neck,  or  his  back,  or  his  wing  as  it  rode, 
Like  adder,  anon  tried  to  poison  and  goad, 

His  flight  was  still  upward  and  strong. 
Both  ample  his  muscle,  his  breast  and  his  wing, 
And  plumage  to  shield  him  from  goading  or  sting. 
With  a  struggle  convulsive,  to  earth  he  did  fling 

This  curse,  this  disgrace  and  this  wrong. 

No  longer  by  slavery,  the  curse,  is  he  ridden, 
By    the   power  of    freedom  to  dismount    \v;i* 

bidden, 
As  it  falls  to  the  earth  it  is  buried  and  hidden, 

From  his  neck,  his  back  or  his  wing. 
Then  let  freedom's  daughters  be  happy  and  sing* 
And  patriots  and  statesmen  their  tributes  should 

bring, 
With  a  grand,  mighty  struggle  he  threw  off"  the 

foul  thing, 
From  oft'  of  the  tip  of  his  wing. 

Then  soar  like  the  sun  as  he  thus  onward  rolls, 
Or  perch  among  the  stars,  on  the  flag's  azure 

folds, 
Emblazoned  with  silver  and  burnish'd  with  gold, 

'Mong  thirty-four  bright,  shining  stars. 
Most  glorious  ensign,  the  red,  white  and  blue ; 

i 


77 

The  white  for  its  purity,  with  the  azure  so  true, 
And  the  red  for  the  blood  which   was  thus  shed 

all  through. 
The  nation,  in  liberty's  wars. 

O!  ye  lands  of  the  despot  be  happy  and  sing, 
He  shall  waft  to  your  shores,  by  the   tip  of  his 

wing, 
The  joy  and  the  glory  which  freedom  doth  bring, 

This  glorious  bird,  born  to-day. 
O'er  ocean  his  self-growing  power  shall  roll ; 
His  light  shall  illumine  the  mind  and  the  soul, 
The  waftings  of  freedom  in  liberty's  goal, 

As  it  rolls  o'er  the  earth  on  its  way. 

Yes,  the  spirit  of  liberty,  born  on  this  day, 
Shall  roll  around  the  earth  in  liberty's  sway, 
Nor  stop  for  the  threat' nings  of  war's  dread  array, 

Till  man  his  true  sphere  shall  have  found. 
And  the  autocrat's  strength  from  his  head  shall 

be  shorn 

By  power  the  eagle's  uuclipp'd  pinions  hath  borne, 
And  the  crown  and  scepter  from  kings  shall  be 
torn, 

From  their  thrones  o'er  the  earth  all  around. 

Europe's  muttering  thunders  rumbling  around, 
Are  presaging  a  time  whenthecrumbling  crown, 


78 

From  the  autocrat's  head  shall   come  tumbling 

down. 

Since  freedom  our  goddess  did  brinir- 
With  freedom  o'er  earth  the  world's  welkiu  shall 

ring, 
AVith  praises,  the  scepter  from  the  hand  of  the 

king 
Shall  be  swept  like  lightning,  by  the  tip  of  his 

wing; 
By  a  stroke  from  the  tip  of  his  wing. 

Soar  on  in  thy  splendor,  proud  bird  of  the  sun, 
The  pride  of  the  world,  in  Columbia,  begun, 
Since  slavery  hath  fought  and  true  freedom  hath 
won, 

Thy  ^Egis  to  mankind  is  given, 
For  a  shield  and  buckler,  a  staff  or  a  rod, 
For  virtue's  approval,  like  Jupiter's  nod, 
In  time  of  probation  to  help  man  to  God ; 

To  him,  to  God  and  his  heaven. 

Then,  since  in  His  providence  it  is  thus  to  be, 
Take  the  evergreen  branches  of  liberty's  tree 
In  thy  talons  and  beak,  and  soar  o'er  the  sea, 

And  drop  them  o'er  lands  now  forlorn  ; 
And  the  car  of  progression  shall  then  onward 

roll, 
T'ward  the  halo  of  light  in  liberty's  goal, 


79 

Expanding  and  illuming  the  heart  and  the  soul, 
And  hast'ning  millennium's  morn. 


the  red  hand  of  war  is  whitened  and  gone, 
And   the  world's   highest   age  is   beginning   to 

dawn, 
"While  the  geni,  mankind,  is  soaring  upward  and 

on, 

Man's  status  in  freedom  to  bring. 
This  day  the  wide  world  should  be  happy  and 

sing, 
As  heaven's  wide  welkin  with  rejoicings   doth 

ring 

With  praises  to  Him  of  the  universe  King, 
Wafted  by  the  tip  of  "his  wing. 


THE  NATION'S  NIGHT  AND  THE  NATION'S  DAY, 

"Was  written  on  board  the  steamer  "  Argonaut,"  between 
Louisville,  Kentucky,  and  the  mouth  of  White  river, 
Arkansas.  The  poem  commences  in  the  beginning  of 
our  political  troubles,  the  dusky  eve  of  the  nation's 
night,  when  the  nation  yet  dreamed  of  a  better  day  • 
then  through  some  of  the  principal  events  of  the  war ; 
recognizes  and  illustrates  the  dealings  of  Providence 
in  the  national  sacrifice,  securing  the  nation's  redemp 
tion  from  the  thraldom  of  slavery  and  treason  ;  bring- 


80 

ing  in  the  glorious  morning  of  peace  and  true  free 
dom ;  and  then  closes  with  "The  Nation's  Day,"  with 
a  glance  at  the  future  greatness  of  America,  and  the 
effects  of  the  re-establishment  of  the  Union,  self-gov 
ernment  and  true  liberty  upon  the  world. 

Morpheus  had  wrapp'd   us  in  the  slumbers  of 

night, 

And  dreaming  of  a  nation  we  lay  ; 
Our  visions  of  the  night  were  hoth  dismal  and 

bright, 

Ere  loom'd  up  the  dawning  of  day  ; 
But  the  gloom  of  midnight  seem'd  dispell'd  by 

the  light 
And  beaming  of  liberty's  ray. 

The  blackness  of  darkness,  suspended  on  high, 

The  political  zenith  enshrouds, 
Xor  faint  glimmering  stars,  nor  moon  in  the  sky, 

Dare  gleam  through  the  lowering  clouds ; 
And  traitors  were  proud,  for  they  thought  it  a 
shroud 

For  a  nation  that  soon  had  to  die. 

The  sword  of  justice  then  hung  o'er  a  land 
AVhirh  was  curs'd  by  the  blood  of  the  slave, 

"\Vhile  wreaking  for  judgment  was  war's  bloody 

hand, 
To  bury  the  curse  iu  the  grave  ; 


81 

And  at  judgment's  right  hand  the  loyal  did  stand, 
Their  country  and  freedom  to  save. 

Came  storms  of  red  lightning,  with  wars'  pealing 

thunder, 

As  the  night  waxed  woeful  and  wane, 
And  the  civilized  world  with  awe-stricken  won 
der, 

Stood  aghast  at  the  blood  of  the  slain, 
At  th' bolts  and  the  thunder,  for  great  were  the 

number, 
Lay  ghastly  and  pale  o'er  the  plain. 

The  sword  of  His  vengeance  was  wreaking  with 

blood, 

With  blood  that  was  mixed  with  the  slave ; 
They  had  bartered  their  blood  to  slavery,  their 

god, 

And  their  soil  to  the  tyrant  and  knave; 
By  the  steed  of  our  God  their  land  was  then  trod, 
Whose  hoofs  dug  hospitable  graves. 

It  seemed  like  an  earthquake,  or  elements'  crash 
Of  the  nation — her  woe  and  her  weal; 

For  naught  bat  His  thunders  and  steel's  dreadful 

clash, 
Could  persuade  them  or  teach  them  to  feel: 


82 


We  saw  through  the  flash  His  vengeance  thus 

dash, 
'Mid  thunders  and  clashing  of  steel. 

Nor  the  glimmering  ray  of  pale  moon  or  star, 
But  dismal  the  night's  hooting  owl, 

And  pelicans  and  lions,  in  lands  from  afar, 
Then  set  up  their  hooting  and  growl, 

In  lands  from  afar,  at  our  grim  dogs  of  war, 
Which  did  bark,  and  thunder  and  howl. 

On  the  plains  of  Armageddon,  in   secession's 

night, 

Were  confronted  in  battle  array, 
Both  Gog  and  Magog,  who  were  stripp'd  for  the 

fight, 

To  decide  with  the  sword  the  great  day, 
And  the  one  in  their  might  had  Liberty's  right, 
For  a  torch,  had  Liberty's  ray. 

The  others,  deceived  by  the  demon  of  night, 

To  the  altar  of  slavery  were  led, 
By  their  god  of  the  night  to  believe  it  was  right, 

Their  slave-tainted  blood  thus  to  shed  ; 
And  the  world  in  affright  stood  appall'd   at  the 
sight, 

At  slavery-curs'd  corpses  when  dead. 


Great   was  the  sacrifice,   the  blood   of  the  na 
tion, 

Both  truest  and -purest  the  blood, 
Which  was  shed  on  the  altar  for  freedom's  obla 
tion, 

To  satisfy  vengeance  of  God  ; 
In  the  hands  of  their  God  they  were  Vengeance's 

rod, 
"Were  broken  for  sins  of  the  nation. 

Full  three  hundred  battle-fields  gory  and  red, 

All  red  with  the  blood  of  the  slain, 
And  three  hundred  thousand  brave  warriors  lay 

dead, 

All  dead,  stretch'd  their  bones  o'er  the  plain. 
From   the  death-stricken  head  their  spirits  had 

fled, 
Nor  returned  e'er  to  battle  again. 

Their  land,  a  Golgotha  of  skulls  and  of  bones, 

Where  the  curse,  by  Satan  devised, 
Had   torn   little  hearts  from  their  parents  and 

homes, 

Despising  their  tears  and  their  cries, 
Where  the  lizards  make  homes  'neath  the  skull's 

arching  domes, 
And  are  peeping  from  sockets  of  eyes. 


84 

A  land  where  dark  memories  grow  hideous  and 

wild, 

Love  of  lust  and  lucre  grew  bold, 
And  dark  souls  to  dark  deeds  by  Satan  beguil'd, 

Whose  horrors  can  never  be  told. 
The   father  sold  his  own  child  with  a  devilish 

smile; 
Hoarded  his  own  blood  in  the  gold. 

The  hand  and  the  head  of  the  oppressor  are  cold, 

Or  hot  in  the  regions  of  hell ! 
The  man-stealer's  soul,  by  the  prophets  foretold, 

E'en  curs'd  is  the  citadel  shell ; 
In  that  cranium  rolls  the  horrors  of  old, 

Ere  the  sound  of  the  dark  demon's  knell. 

And  their  cities,  like  Sodoms  and  Gomorrahs  of 

old, 

On  the  banks  of  the  sea  then  called  Dead, 
Black  columns  of  smoke  and  of  llame  upward 

roll'd, 

O'er  the  markets  of  blood  they  had  bred. 
And  their  streets  ran  red  with  the  blood  which 

was  shed, 
Where  mothers  from  babes  had  been  sold. 

Now  dismal  destruction  hangs  over  black  walls, 

Or  meets  at  the  corners  of  streets ; 
The  shroud  of  Ilia  vengeance,  like  a  funeral  pall, 


85 

Crimes'  merited  punishment  meets  , 
Where  the  spoiler  doth  prowl,  'mong  the  bats  and 

the  owls, 
Their  vigils  with  hootings  to  keep. 

Destruction  had  bred  in  their  hot,  humid  homes. 

And  still  echoes  a  lingering  wail 
From  tortures  then  inflicted  on  innocent  ones, 

Ere  justice  and  judgment  prevailed. 
Now  serpents  twine  among  bones,  or  coil  within 
-.    domes 

That  had  handl'd  the  "  cat-'o-nine  tails." 

Four  dark,  dismal  journeys  in  chaos  round  the 

sun 

Had  traveled  the  night-stricken  world ; 
O'er  a  thousand  dark  nights  seem'd  centered  in 

one, 

While  the  flames  of  His  judgment  upcurl'd, 
When  light  seem'd  to  come,  and  His  judgments 

were  done ; 
When  the  bolts  of  His  wrath  were  thus  hurl'd. 

Those  bolts  from  His  lightning,  from  judgments 
on  high, 

Have  cleft  the  political  clouds; 
While  stars  shine  brightly  in  the  political  sky, 

Are  dispelling  the  pall  which  enshrouds ; 


86 

And  slavery  did  die  with  a  shriek  and  a  sigh, 
And  traitors  no  longer  were  proud. 

Other  stars  in  the  army  of  freedom  do  shine, 
As  the  light  of  the  morning  now  nears  ; 

Now  a  sight  most  sublime  and  light  to  mankind, 
A  bright  constellation  appears ; 

For  the  beacons  of  time  to  illumine  the  mind, 
And  drive  away  liberty's  fears. 


THE  NATION'S   DAY, 

"  A  change  comes  over  the  spirit  of  our  dream  ;" 

The  illum'ing  of  liberty's  ray 
Is  caught  from  the  glory  of  morning's  first  gleam, 

As  looms  up  the  dawning  of  day, 
Dispelling  the  darkness  and  gloom  of  the  night, 
And  illum'in     he  world  with  liberty's  light. 

The  glorious  morning  now  looms  up  the  east, 

Again  comes  the  funeral  pall, 
When  the  last  death-struggles  of  elavery,  the 
beast, 

Caused  the  star  of  the  morning  to  fall ; 
Then  again  He  arose  with  glory  more  bright, 
The  hero  of  freedom,  in  immortal  light. 


87 

On  the  wings  of  the  morning  the  white  bird  of 
peace 

Comes  flitting  with  joy  o'er  the  earth ; 
The  sunbeams  of  liberty  light  up  the  east, 

This  morning  of  freedom's  true  birth  ; 
The  eagle  soars  higher,  he  had  thrown  oif  a  load, 
Nor  longer  by  slavery,  the  curse,  is  he  rode. 

Now  the  white  wings  of  peace  are  hovering  o'er, 

To  bring  prosperity  again. 
The .  great  ship  of  state  has  again  reached  the 

shore, 

From  the  perils  of  War's  storming  main ; 
She  over  the  waves  of  disunion  no  more 
Shall  reel,  'mid  the  thunders  of  war's  dreadful 
roar. 

The  monuments  of  war  rear'd  high  in  the  land, 

On  Columbia's  southern  shore  ; 
Like  ghosts  of  the  dead  they  in  memory  stand, 

The  goblins  of  treason  before 
The  specters  of  darkness,  the  soul  to  affright, 
The  sous  of  the  day  from  secession's  night. 

The  Union  of  our  fathers,  cemented  with  blood, 

Shall  never  be  broken  again, 
Nor  waves  of  secession  roll  war's  crimson  flood 

Down  rivers  of  blood  to  the  main ; 


88 

But  the  pillar  of  union  through  siges  shall  stand, 
The  light-house  of  liberty  for  every  land. 

Then  look  up,  Columbia,  be  joyful  and  sing, 
Throw  your  weeds  of  mourning  away ; 

Freedom  and  union  their  blessings  shall  bring 
To  the  children  of  liberty's  day. 

Your  valleys  and  mountains  shall  bloom  like  the 
rose, 

And  drown  with  delight  humanity's  woes. 

Ye  erring  sister  States,  come  join  in  the  strain 

Of  song,  of  praise  with  the  nation ; 
You  will  yet  praise  the  day  when  the  blood  of 

your  slain 

Did  purchase  your  land's  salvation  ; 
V0f  the  war  itself,  since  in  the  hands  of  God 
'Twas  turned  to  a  blessing  in  correction's  rod. 

For  the  curse  which  had  been  thy  country's  great 
bane 

Of  her  greatness — the  woe  of  her  weal, 
Had  still  with  his  poison  and  ruin  remained, 

If  he  had  not  his  treason  revealed, 
And  the  dragon  of  slavery  had  not  been  slain, 
Had  he  not  always  tried  to  ruin  and  reign. 


89 

All    ye  sisters    of   Union    and    homes    of   the 

brave, 

Come  join  in  the  joy  of  the  morning, 
The  chain  which  had  bound  you  to  the  yoke  of  the 

slave, 

A  new  brightest  link  is  adorning. 
The  chain  is  amended,  Jehovah  hath  spoken, 
Never  more  shall  the  constitution  be  broken. 

With  a  country  more  prosperous  than  ever  before 

Beneath  the  sun  had  existed ; 
How  great  shall  she  be  when  by  war  never  more 

Shall  the  Union  and  laws  be  resisted, 
Since  slavery,  the  bane  of  her  greatness  before, 
Shall  curse,  rule,  ruin  and  poison  no  more. 

And  ye  crown'd-headed  despots,  rulers,  who  said 
That  man  could  not  govern  himself, 

To  Columbia  shall  bow  the  crown-ridden  head 
To  man,  the  merciless  elf: 

For  the  light  of  the  morning,  freedom's  true  birth, 

Is  liberty's  adorning  and  light  of  the  earth. 

Columbia,  Columbia,  the  light  of  the  earth, 

The  rising  of  liberty's  day, 
The  power  and  glory  of  liberty's  worth, 

Driving  darkness  and  despots  away ; 
The  glorious  morning  in  Columbia  begun, 
Now  rising  to  the  zenith  is  liberty's  sun. 


yo 

Up  through  the  vista  of  a  thousand  bright  years, 
On  the  white-winged  bird  of  the  dream 

We  are  carried,  and  still  vision  appears 
In  its  truth,  more  glorious  is  seen  ; 

And  freedom  and  union  still  bloom'd  like  the  rose, 

Long  dead  and  forgotten  were  liberty's  foes. 

Five  hundred  millions  of  the  children  of  men, 

Still  chanted  Columbia's  lay 
Of  praise,  in  this  vision  of  poetic  ken, 

Near  the  noon  of  liberty's  day, 
The  pages  of  history  with  th'  loyal  did  shine, 
Their  deeds  were  engraven  on  the  tablets  of  time. 

Perch'd  on  the  wings  of  the  white  bird  of  peace, 

The  glorious  prospect  reviewing; 
"  Man  ran  to  and  fro,  and  knowledge  increased," 

Nor  God-given  rights  were  eschewing; 
And  all  found  plenty,  and  homes  in  the  land 
Wrought  by  the  power  of  liberty's  wand. 

The  Union,  like  a  carpet  spread  out  'neath  the  sun, 
Nor  fading  her  rich  blending  hues, 

But  the  glory  of  all  seem'd  center'd  in  one, 
The  blending  of  red,  white  and  blues, 

And  turrets  and  towers,  and  cities  and  gold, 

And  wealth  of  her  millions  could  never  be  told. 

And  civilization  had  o'erleaped  the  mountain, 
To  the  shores  of  the  wilds  in  the  West, 


91 

Thus  drinking  the  nectar  from  liberty's  fountain, 

Her  Hundreds  of  millions  were  blest ; 
Columbia's  car  of  progression  had  roll'd 
Through  her  lands  of  plenty,  and  freedom,  and 
gold. 

When  ages  on  ages  of  time  had  roll'd  up, 
Thus  up  through  the  future's  bright  way. 

The  world  drank  the  nectar  of  Liberty's  cup, 
Did  their  songs  of  tribute  repay. 

Liberty  and  Union,  the  hope  of  mankind, 

Found  their  defense  in  the  wealth  of  'the  mind. 

And  the  valleys,  and  vales,  and  hamlets,  and  hills* 
Flowers  and  fruits,  and  rich  golden  grain, 

And  like  liquid  silver  ran  rivers  and  rills, 
Laving  the  lowlands  o'er  the  vast  plain  ; 

Both  wise  and  happy  were  the  children  of  men, 

For  the  young  child  stood  on  the  cocatrice     den ! 


I  THINK  OF  THEE  AND  DREAM, 

Written  for  a  young  lieutenant,  while  sailing  down  the 
Ohio  river,  on  our  way  to  Little  Rock,  Arkansas. 

While  from  my  native  State  I  float. 

Adown  the  grand  blue  stream, 
While  on  the  gallant  old  steamboat, 

I  think  of  thee  and  dream. 


92 


Amid  the  sound  of  rushing  waters, 

And  of  the  hissing  steam, 
Around  thee,  dear,  fond  memory  loiters ; 

I  think  of  thee  and  dream. 

And  as  o'er  Southern  lands  I  rove, 
'Mid  war's  dread,  dazzling  gleam, 

I  think  of  thee,  it  must  be,  love, 
I  think  of  thee  and  dream. 

When,  through  the  din  of  battle's  strife, 

I  hear  the  wounded  scream, 
When  blood  and  battle  red  runs  rife, 

I  think  of  thee  and  dream. 

Thy  image  still  before  my  heart, 

A  morning  star  doth  seem, 
To  cheer  through  life  this  wandering  bark ; 

I  think  of  thee  and  dream. 

And  as  through  life  I  float  along, 

Adown  life's  crooked  stream, 
I  too  must  sing  a  lover's  song ; 

I  think  of  thee  and  dream. 

My  heart,  my  heart,  is  broke  by  thee, 

But  half  a  heart  doth  seem  ; 
Oh  !  must  it  ever  only  be, 

To  think  of  thee  and  dream  ? 


93 


And  wilt  them  keep  that  other  part  ? 

'Twill  not  be  long,  I  ween, 
Until  with  thee  and  all  my  heart, 

We'll  love,  and  think,  and  dream. 


FREAKS  OF  HUMANITY, 

OR  PICTURES  OP  BEAUTY  AND  HORROR A  FACT. 

On  our  way  up  White  river,  Arkansas,  some  150  miles 
above  its  mouth,  we  landed  one  Sabbath  afternoon ; 
and  during  our  perambulations  on  shore,  in  the  even 
ing,  found  the  unfortunate  victim  who,  with  the  cir 
cumstances,  form  the  subject  for  the  narrative  of  this 
poem.  We  had  seen  many  horrid  sights  during  the 
war,  but  to  our  mind  and  feelings,  this  case  eclipsed, 
in  horror,  anything  we  had  before  seen  or  heard  of. 
He  had  once  been  a  Union  soldier,  and  having  been 
separated,  by  some  means,  from  his  command,  was 
taken  by  the  "Chivalry"  and  treated  as  narrated. 
Then  crawling  from  the  river  to  an  old,  open  shed,  was 
suffered  to  lie  there  more  than  three  years,  neara  house 
inhabited  by  secesh  (demons  of  hell,  rather  than  hu 
man  beings),  and  kept  alive  by  the  stealth  of  a  poor, 
old  decrepid  slave  woman,  the  only  one  in  that  part  of 
"  the  shades  of  Egypt "  who  seemed  to  have  feelings  of 
humanity.  We  took  him  to  Duvall's  Bluff,  to  the 
hospital,  but  it  is  very  doubtful  that  he  survived.  It 


94 

is  all  true,  and  could  be  substantiated  by  at  least  500 
witnesses,  who  will  attest  the  truth  of  every  word  of  it, 
should  this  meet  their  scrutiny. 

The  sun  shone  brightly  in  a  clear,  Southern  sky, 
Not  the  fringe  of  a  cloud  to  be  seen  ; 

While  ten  gallant  steamers  each  other  did  vie 
To  roll  up  the  waves  of  the  stream. 

Like  a  flock  of  huge  swans,  so  graceful   and 

white, 

Both  their  wings,  and  plumage,  and  breast, 
As  they  chased  each  other  through  the  sparkling 

light 
That  foara'd  o'er  the  waves'  rolling  crest. 

Thus  up  wild  White  river,  in  Arkansas  State, 

A  deep  and  meandering  stream, 
Where  the  huge  silver-fish  doth  chase  his  huge 
mate, 

And  jumping,  do  flash  in  the  gleam. 

The  sun  past  meridian's  sky  in  the  west, 
'Twas  P.  M.,  this  sweet,  Sabbath  day, 

When  we  landed  to  strengthen  the  weary  with 

rest, 
And  prepare  a  cook'd  meal  on  the  way. 

A  romantic  site  of  a  village  on  shore ; 
The  village  to  war  had  been  doom'd; 


95 

On  the  site  had  been  many -homes  once  before, 
Now  black,  crumbling  chimneys  uploom'd. 

The  boughs  of  the  cypress  and  live  oak  did  wave, 
O'er  the  graves  of  the  bless'd  loyal  dead  ; 

The  vine  of  the  passion  flower   crept  o'er  his 

grave, 
'Twiu'd  wreathes  o'er  his  passionless  head. 

For  a  battle  had  swept  o'er  the  romantic  plain, 
Grim  gunboats  awoke  up  the  vales ; 

And  naught  but  the  ruins  and  graves  of  the  slain 
Were  left  thus  to  tell  the  sad  tale. 

Save  one,  part  of  a  man,  had  crawl'd  from  the 

river, 

To  a  most  wretched  old,  open  shed ; 
A  sight  met  the  view  which  made  loyal  nerves 

shiver; 
The  grave  had  been  robb'd  of  her  dead  ! 

One  house,  should  have  been  the  abode  of  man 
kind, 

At  least  where  his  kindred  should  dwell ; 
But  the  inmates,  to  feeling  and  sympathy  blind, 

Had  robb'd  pandemonium's  hell ! 

There  lay  the  poor  victim,  all  haggard,  forlorn, 
As  nude  as  the  day  he  was  born, 


96 

Save  a  filthy  old  quilt  wound  around    his  lank 

loin 
Nor  hiding  his  wrack-ridden  form. 

Beneath  it  protruded  two  raw,  shrunken  stumps 
Of  legs  that  were  off  near  the  feet ; 

While  through  skin-covered  ribs  his  heart  almost 

jumped, 
As  in  madness  of  torture  it  beat, 

"  Oh !  my  poor,  wretched  man,  how  came  you 

thus  here  ? 

How  long  in  this  horror  remain'd  ?  " 
Half  rising,  with  frenzy,  and  the  eye's  madden'd 

leer, 
He  then  groaned  and  fell  back  again  ! 

Oh  !  fallen  humanity,  how  cruel  thou  art; 

Is  there  no  one  to  pity  and  save  ? 
Yes,  a  poor  old  slave  had  done  her  poor  part — 

Kept  alive  by  the  stealth  of  a  slave. 

Great  God,  Oh  !  how  horrid  his  history  appears, 
"Which  the  slave  then  tried  to  deliver; 

She  said  it  had  been  now  more  than  three  years 
Since  he  crawl'd  thus  up  from  the  river. 

'Twas  not  in  the  glory  of  battle  he  fell, 
Nor  this  thought  the  soldier  to  cheer ; 

, 
ft 


97 

So  strangely  and  horridly  the  slave  did  tell, 
And  she  told  it  with  evident  fear. 

That  when  war  had  maddened  the  "  Chivalry's" 
brain 

(Chivalry  of  the  devil  and  knave), 
They  had  tied  him  to  a  login  "White  river's  main, 

And  sent  him  adrift  on  the  wave. 

That  it  was  in  the  midst  of"  the  cold  winter  time," 
The  beginning  of  secession's  night, 

His  legs  were  all  frozen,  and  cut  by  the  twine, 
"Which  caused  thus  this  horrible  sight. 

And  that  at  first  his  mind  was  sprightly  and  sane, 

For  the  light  of  a  scholar  he  had  ; 
"When  his  tortures  at  length  aftected  his  brain, 

Then  at  times  he  was  raving  and  mad. 

"When,  horrors  on  horrors!    blood  and  nerves 

quiver, 

"When  frenzy  distracted  his  brain  ; 
On  his  blood-raw  stumps  he  would  run  to  the 

river, 
Then  come  crawling  and  bleeding  again  ! 

"When  prejudice,  malice  and  hatred  were  rife, 
Fill'd  all  the  Confederate  air, 
9 


98 

Already  they  bad  threatened  the  slave's  poor  life, 
And  more  she  could  tell  if  she  dare  ! 

Just  think  of  his  thoughts,  while,  yet  he  could 
think, 

Thus  starving,  in  tortures  to  die ; 
'Twas  more  than  enough  to  make  the  man  sink, 

Or  reason  to  flutter  and  fly. 

Now  go  bring  the  stretchers,  of  soldiers'  romance, 
Now  raise  him  up  gently,  my  boys. 

We  see  in  true  pictures  of  life  at  a  glance, 
Humanity's  freaks  and  alloys. 


THE  WHIPPOWIL  ON  PICKET. 

Thou  sad  and  lonely,  quaintly  bird, 
Thy  song  of  sadness  faintly  heard, 
Breathes  loneliness  in  every  word ; 

And  when  near,  and  loud,  and  shrill, 
Thy  notes  like  piercing  arrows  dart 
Their  shafts  into  the  lonely  heart, 
With  such  melancholy,  mournful  art, 

Comes  whippowil,  whippowil. 

'Tis  at  Atlanta,  in  the  night, 

The  moon  and  stars,  pale  twinkling  light, 


99 

Their  quaint,  sad  musings  do  invite, 

While  the  chilly  dews  distill ; 
On  picket's  outmost  vidette  post 
Stands  the  sentry  like  a  ghost ; 
lie  seems  in  contemplation  lost : 

Comes  whippowil,  whippowil. 

Another  bloody  battle  day, 
"With  dusky  eve  has  pass'd  away, 
And  soldiers  pale  in  death  do  lay, 

O'er  the  valley,  plain  and  hill, 
Stands  on  the  margin  of  a  vale, 
Of  fallen  warriors,  still  and  pale, 
Anon  repeated  comes  the  wail, 

Comes  whippowil,  whippowil. 

He  thinks  of  home,  and  friends  and  all, 
Of  the  little  ones,  so  cute  and  small, 
Of  a  mother's  warning,  "  might  befall !  " 

He  did  not  consult  her  will. 
He  thinks  of  good  things  then  he  had, 
When  he  thus  left,  a  truant  lad, 
And  his  gloomy  thoughts  grow  still  more  sad, 

Comes  whippowil,  whippowil. 

He  thinks,  too,  of  a  tear-dimm'd  eye, 
Of  azure  hue  or  ebony  dye, 
He  left  with  many  a  deep-drawn  sigh, 
And  his  own  the  tear-drops  fill ; 


100 

He  thinks  of  her,  when  in  eve  of  day 
In  pleasant  walks  their  feet  did  stray 
Adown  the  meadow's  sweet  pathway, 
Comes  whippowil,  whippowil. 

When  on  some  sweet  and  balmy  night, 
Beneath  the  pale  moon's  silvery  light, 
With  youth  and  beauty's  prospects  bright, 

On  the  bank  murmuring  rill, 
They  used  to  sit,  and  chat,  and  sing, 
While  time  did  flit  on  joyful  wing, 
But  those  heartfelt  notes  their  sadness  bring, 

Comes  whippowil,  whippowil. 

When  heartstrings  tuned  to  sweetest  note, 
Where  love  and  beauty  once  did  float, 
The  heaving,  leaping,  light  lifeboat, 

On  the  pond  above  the  mill ; 
And  of  those  happy,  fleeting  hours, 
Beneath  those  eyes'  bewitching  powers, 
Again  the  mental  cloud  now  lowers, 

Comes  whippowil,  whippowil. 

Come  stop,  poor  bird,  thy  lonely  strain, 
The  soldier  now  would  gladly  fain 
Not  hear  thy  plaintive  song  again, 

For  it  broods  a  coming  ill ; 
But  the  tired  soldier's  wish  is  vain, 


101 

And  still  it  comes  athwart  the  plain, 
From  o'er  the  beds  of  sleeping  slain, 
Comes  whippowil,  whippowil. 

The  large  pale  moon  grows  full  and  round, 
Quick,  gleams^a  flash  !  with  piercing  sound. 
Oh  !  he  receives  a  mortal  wound ! 

«  Oh  !  my  God ! "  he  says,  "I'm  kill'd ! " 
No  more  that  heart  in  love  doth  bound, 
Its  blood,  with  dew,  bedecks  the  ground, 
The  dirgely  knell  doth  still  resound, 

Says  whippowil,  whippowil. 

"While  far  away  a  maiden  sleeps, 

But  in  her  dreams  she  sobs  and  weeps, 

Until  with  tears  her  pillow  steeps, 

And  her  heart  doth  throb  and  thrill ; 
She  hears  the  musket  crack,  in  dreams, 
As  she,  waking,  starts  and  screams, 
And  as  her  heart  in  sadness  weens, 

Comes  whippowil,  whippowil. 

Again,  one  sad  and  lonely  evening, 
The  frightful  dream  its  impress  leaving, 
Nor  the  tide  of  time  retrieving, 

Still  her  heart 's  with  anguish  fill'd, 
A  letter  comes,  all  draped  in  black, 
Says,  "  Oh  !  I  heard  the  musket  crack ; 


102 

I  felt  he'd  never  more  come  back; 
And  that  lonely  whippowil !  " 

'Tis  thus  to  hearts  each  other  given, 
That  when  the.  tender  cord  is  riven, 
They  feel  the  stroke  thro'  dreams  and  heaven, 

And  the  lonely  whippowil. 
Their  sadful  song  whioh  doth  impart 
The  language  of  the  lonely  heart, 
So  like  our  songs  of  human  art, 

Sad  and  lonely  whippowil ! 


HAUNTING  THOUGHTS  OF  THE  DEATH  OF  A,  C, 
ALEXANDER,  OF  CO,  H, 

KILLED   AT    FORT    M'ALLISTER,    GEORGIA. 

At  M'Allister's  storming' charge  and  strife, 
Where  blood  and  battle  red  ran  rife, 
"Was  ebbing  then  the  tide  of  life, 

'Mid  battle's  flashes  gleaming ; 
And  death  then  rode  his  pale  white  horse 
O'er  many  a  mangled,  bleeding  corse, 
"Without  the  pang  of  dread  remorse, 

And  flags  and  blood  were  streaming. 

While  echoed  yet  the  battle's  sound, 
Through  the  romantic  welkin's  round,  *     . 


103 

And  on  parapet,  and  ditch,  and  ground, 

Were  heroes  dead  and  dying ; 
Were  'mong  the  wounded  and  the  slain, 
Had  limbs  and  trunks  been  rent  in  twain, 
Two  soldiers  with  the  stretchers  came, 
'Mong  dead  and  wounded  lying. 

Poor  "  Curt,"  we  fain  would  drop  a  tear, 
Over  thy  noble  soldier's  bier, 
For  yet  we  feel  thou  might' st  been  here 
.  If  thus  we  had  not  said  : 
u  Go,  carry  off  some  other  one," 
From  mangled  bodies  blood  doth  run, 
"  We'd  rather  rest,  be  let  alone, 
It's  only  in  the  leg." 

Insisting  still,  we  then  said,  "  Go, 
Go  quick,  my  boy,  do  not  be  slow." 
Then  little  did  we  think  or  know 

That  he  went  his  death  to  meet. 
Alas !  torpedoes  fill'd  the  ground, 
Just  buried  'ueath  the  view  all  'round. 
A  moment  more  we  heard  the  sound — 

One  burst  beneath'  his  feet. 

His  legs  were  broken,  bleeding,  torn, 
On  the  self  same  stretcher  he  was  borne, 
A  sight  to  us  so  sad,  forlorn, 


104 

Added  to  augmented  woe. 
That  lornful  thought  doth  still  remain, 
For  to  forget  can  never  fain, 
Anon  it  conies  again,  again, 

If  we  had  not  then  said  "  Go." 

That  heartfelt  thought,  it  lingers  yet, 
K"or  dare,  nor  fain  the  scene  forget, 
Such  fates  the  soldier's  path  beset, 

'S  the  only  thought  relieving ; 
Though  yet  we  think,  we  feel,  we  know, 
'Twas  nature's  impulse  ordered  "  Go," 
Though  prompted  thus  by  other's  woe, 

Proves  but  a  sad  retrieving. 

Forgive,  dear  parents,  his  sad  fate, 
Though  now  repentance  is  too  late, 
The  well-meant  order,  but  mistake, 

If  mistake  it  was,  to  **  Go ;  " 
His  soldier's  path  with  demon's  snare, 
Could  not  thus  teach  his  feet  beware, 
To  ahun  destruction  hidden  there ; 

'Twas  fate,  perhaps,  said  so, 

The  order  comes  to  forward  now, 
True  soldiers  to  the  orders  bow,  4 

Though  death 's  depicted  on  the  brow ; 
He  marches  forward,  straight ; 


105 

'Tis  fate  that  prompts  the  order  given, 
From  circumstances  then  deriven, 
Though  life  or  limb  by  fate  be  riven, 

He  goes  and  bows  to  fate. 

• 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SAMUEL  CROOKS, 

Banner  bearer  of  the  54th  0.  V.  V.  I.,  who  was  killed  at 
Fort  M'Allister,  Georgia. 

"When  battle's  din  did  rend  the  air, 

And  scythes  of  death  were  mowing  there, 

Their  ready  harvest  to  prepare, 

He  death  and  danger  brook'd, 
'Mid  blazing,  belching  cannon's  roar, 
Nor  faltered  he  at  death  nor  gore, 
But  our  banner  forward  proudly  bore, 

Heroic  Samuel  Crooks. 

"With  unblanched  brow,  his  eye  was  set 
Upon  the  frowning  parapet ; 
With  firm,  heroic,  stately  step, 

He  the  veteran  he  looked. 
Through  torpedoes,  abattis,  ditch, 
His  proud  form  scap'd  the  narrow  niche, 
Where  shafts  of  death  did  plunge  and  pitch, 

Brave  banner  bearer  Crooks. 
10 


106 

But  as  he  scaled  the  frowning  wall, 
O'er  sore  obtructions,  ditch  and  all, 
Did  th'  veteran  and  his  colors  fall, 

!N"or  yet  the  flag  forsook ; 
But  tho'  he  fell,  his  hands  did  hold 
The  sacred  staft',  and  riddl'd  folds — 
"Was  e'en  in  death  so  brave  and  bold, 

Heroic  Samuel  Crooks. 

A  moment  more  our  flag  did  stand, 
The  first,  for  victory's  stern  command, 
By  an  almost  cruel,  fiendly  hand, 

From  dying  hands  he  took. 
*  From  dying  limbs  the  flag  was  torn, 
The  swaddling  folds  so  proudly  borne, 
To  die  without  this  boon,  forlorn, 

Brave  banner  bearer  Crooks, 

Oh  !  cruel  fate,  how  hard  thou  art, 

For  e'en  the  hero's  noble  part 

Must  plead  in  vain,  his  bleeding  heart ; 

Yet  he  smiled  and  upward  look'd 
To  see  the  crimson'd  colors  wave, 
His  country's  freedom  thus  to  save, 
Tho'  he  felt  it  would  be  o'er  his  grave, 

Heroic  Samuel  Crooks. 

No  more  with  comrades  in  the  camp, 
on  the  march's  heavy  tramp, 


107 

Nor  with  young  playmates  on  the  banks 

Of  his  native  hills  or  brooks; 
Those  feet,  when  young,  in  boyish  pranks, 
No  more  shall  step  in  living  ranks, 
But  wade  the  waves  of  Jordan's  damps, 

In  th'  grave,  brave  Samuel  Crooks. 

Beneath  the  mourning  cypress  bough, 

And  the  waving  live-oak  now, 

He  proves  his  faith  to  freedom's  vow, 

In  the  quiet  lowland  nook  ; 
"Within  the  river's  flexing  fold, 
Where  time  and  tide  together  roll, 
The  body  of  the  hero,  bold, 

Lies  banner  bearer  Crooks. 

Between  the  river  and  the  sea, 
Beneath  the  green  palmetto  tree, 
His  spirit  now  from  nature  free, 

No  more  to  read  her  book. 
'Tis  thus  by  cruel  fate  decreed, 
That  bravest  hearts  for  freedom  bleed, 
No  more  the  daring  charge  to  lead, 

Heroic  Samuel  Crooks. 


108 


THE  GHOST  OF  CHICKAMAUGA, 

A   PARODY    ON    POE'S    POEM    OF    THE    RAVEN. 

We  were  weak,  and  worn,  and  weary, 

Down  in  darkness,  dim  and  dreary, 

Laid  the  limbs  of  freedom's  legions, 

"With  marches  tired,  stift'  and  sore  ; 

On  Chickamauga's  bloody  ground, 

"Where  quick  and  dead  were  strewn  around, 

And  midnight  silence  then  profound, 

In  deathly  stillness  brooded  o'er ; 

Some  to  rest  in  slumbers  sweet, 

And  some  to  dream,  and  some  to  snore, 

Perchance  to  dream,  ah !  nevermore. 

'Gainst  a  giant  oak  reclining, 
On  his  feet  our  head  divining, 
Fancy  forming  frightful  figures, 
That  betimes  went  floating  o'er  j^ 
Beneath  the  burly,  branching  oak, 
"Where  naught  the  awful  stillness  broke, 
Of  rippling  rill,  nor  raven's  croak, 
Nor  of  the  distant  battle's  roar, 
Among  the  graves  of  fallen  warriors, 
Those  who  had  fallen  long  before, 
Fallen  to  rise,  ah  !  nevermore. 


109 


Down,  down  among  dissolving  dead, 
'Mong  many  a  sunken  heart  and  head, 
"Where  once  the  tide  of  life  ran  red, 
"Where  once  the  ground  had  drank  the  gore, 
There  was  lying,  musing,  thinking, 
"While  many  mouths  the  dews  were  drinking, 
We  too  went  in  fancy,  linking 
Those  freaks  fantastic  as  of  yore, 
Musing,  thinking  on  the  horrors 
That  we  were  wont  then  to  deplore ; 
A  voice  then  echoed  nevermore ! 

Then  and  there  we  had  a  vision 

We  dare  not  treat  with  vain  derision, 

As  both  from  visions  and  of  dreams 

We  too  have  learned  a  living  lore : 

As  we  waked,  and  mused  or  dream' d, 

Like  life,  in  deathly  silence  seem'd 

A  ghost !  with  burning  eyes  that  beam'd 

Beneath  a  brow  of  blood  and  gore, 

Came  walking,  stalking  thro'  th'  darkness, 

And  he  stood  right  up  before, 

With  shaking  head  said,  nevermore  ! 

As  we  lay  there  musing,  thinking, 
Each  other  eyeing,  without  winking; 
Our  soul,  tho'  sinking,  tasted,  drinking 
From  mother  muse's  cup  of  yore 


110 

And  then  the  trembling,  sinking  soul, 
From  Goddess  nectars  drinking  bold, 
Like  mythologic  gods  of  old, 
Grew  strong  to  mysteries  explore ; 
We  then  resolv'd,  what  ere  beside 
Should  us  betide,  thus  to  explore, 
What  he  thus  meant  by  nevermore. 

Then  the  goblin  thus  addressing, 

Partly  knowing,  feeling,  guessing, 

What  he  meant  by  thus  expressing, 

With  shaking  head  and  nevermore : 

Art  thon  a  wand'ring,  rebel  ghost, 

Just  from  the  traitor  fallen  host, 

Whose  soul  through  hatred  fell,  was  lost, 

All  stain'd  with  blood,  begrimm'd  with  gore, 

Come  up  to  tell  us  of  the  lost, 

From  Pandemonium's  thund'ring  shore? 

With  nodding  head,  said,  evermore  ! 

And  wast  thou  too  a  wicked  fool7 
Whom  Satan  made  a  willing  tool, 
By  training  in  his  hell-born  school, 
The  god  of  slavery  to  adore  ? 
Train'd  to  prejudice  and  knavery, 
In  the  cursed  school  of  slavery, 
Beguiled  to  think  it  was  true  bravery, 
Thus  for  the  curse  thy  blood  to  pour, 


Ill 

Say,  wast  thou  one  of  slavery's  minions, 
Who  fell,  through  hate,  to  rise  no  more 
Said,  "Fallen,  fallen,  evermore!  " 

Didst  thou  fight  for  foulsome  treason, 

Blind  to  justice  and  to  reason  ; 

Was  born  and  bred  thus  by  the  curse  ? 

Such  monstrous  demons  once  she  bore, 

Beelzebub,  thy  ruling  master, 

Led  thee  to  deserved  disaster, 

Which  follow'd  thick  and  fast,  and  faster, 

Until  thou  fell  to  rise  no  more ; 

And  dirges  of  thy  fallen  hopes, 

This  melancholy  burden  bore, 

Of  evermore  and  nevermore  ! 

And  while  the  awful  goblin  stood, 

In  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly  mood, 

With  eyes  that  seem'd  with  shotted  blood, 

To  burn  into  my  bosom's  core, 

Suddenly  there  came  a  roaring 

Noise,  the  ghost  seem'd  not  ignoring, 

While  clammy  sweat  was  oozing,  pouring, 

Pouring  forth  from  every  pore  ; 

In  the  dense  and  dismal  darkness 

It  seem'd  like  distant  battle's  roar, 

And  the  ghost  said,  nevermore ! 


112 

And  as  the  distant  thunders  rolled, 
Which  fill'd  and  thrill'd  my  sinking  soul 
"With  fantastic,  frightful  terrors, 
Never  so  felt  or  feared  before  ; 
Suddenly  augmented  thunder, 
Like  the  world's  great  seventh  wonder, 
Seem'd  to  shake  the  earth  in,  under, 
Like  the  volcanic  rupture's  roar, 
This  grim,  ungainly,  gory  ghost, 
"With  burning  eyeballs  did  deplore, 
"With  shaking  head  said,  nevermore  ! 

And  hast  thou  too  for  lucre  sold 
Thy  kindred  blood  for  glitt'ring  gold  ? 
No  wonder  that  thy  sordid  soul 
Forever  should  thy  sins  deplore ; 
No  wonder  that  thy  soul  should  swell 
With  all  the  fuming  flames  of  hell, 
For  thine  own  children  thou  didst  sell 
For  filthy  lucre's  stock  and  store^ 
Never  can  you  hope  for  heaven, 
Nor  dare  His  mercy  to  implore. 
Said,  nevermore,  ah,  nevermore ! 

Thou  spilt  for  slavery  freedom's  blood, 
And  guilty  of  the  kindred  flood, 
Thy  burning  hand,  and  head,  and  heart 
Are  stained  and  stung  with  clotted  gore  ; 


113 

And  when  eternity  grows  old, 
Still  shall  thy  fiery  eyeballs  roll, 
With  gory  guilt  thy  sinking  soul 
Shall  sink  and  sink,  to  rise  no  more , 
'Mong  the  boiling,  burning  billows, 
Where  Pandemonium's  thunders  roar, 
Shall  sink  and  sink.forevermore. 

Thou  who  of  slavery  made  thy  god, 
And  worship'd  at  his  bidding  nod, 
Shall  ever  feel  the  wreaking  rod, 
Thou  wrought  thyself  to  then  adore ; 
Thou  fallen  monster  of  the  dead, 
Who  freedom's  blood  for  slavery  shed, 
And  for  the  curse  thyself  hath  bled, 
Slave  to  the  God  thy  blood  to  pour ; 
Now  get  thee  thence  and  leave  me  hence, 
For  tophet,  whence  thou  came  before, 
Nor  come  with  haunting  evermore. 

Now  leave  me,  most  infernal  ghost, 
Thro'  love  of  lust  and  lucre  lost; 
Get  thee  back  into  the  darkness, 
Within  old  tophet's  burning  shore. 
Then  he  slowly  from  me  turning 
Half  obeying,  partly  spurning, 
With  fury's  n'res  blazing,  burning; 
With  horrid  hate  seem'd  running  o'er, 


114 

Maddened  then  because  we  drove  him 
From,  standing  thus  right  up  before, 
"With  horrid  hate,  forevermore  ! 

Then  the  trembling,  thrilling  thunders 
Roll'd  sublime  in  epic  numbers ; 
Like  the  music  of  the  demons, 
Whose  notes  in  gloomy  grandeur  pour  ; 
And  as  if  to  make  resistance, 
Seem'd  to  summon  hell's  assistance, 
"Which  now  roll'd  at  shorter  distance, 
With  all  the  earthquake's  wracking  war, 
Leave  me  quickly,  horrid  monster, 
Nor  ever  dare  to  haunt  me  more. 
Then  the  ghost  said,  "  Nevermore  !  " 

% 
Then  the  heavy  air  grew  denser, 

Perfumed  from  the  burning  censor, 
Heaving  high  from  horrid  tophet, 
From  burning  billows  boiling  o'er, 
Still  the  horrid  scene  enhancing, 
As  ten  thousand  demons  dancing, 
Were  receding  and  advancing, 
The  forest  sward  their  dancing  floor, 
From  f.ery  eyes  shot  forth  fury, 
From  torments  awful  which  they  bore, 
And  the  ghost  said,  "  Nevermore  ! '' 


115 

Next  the  Devil,  god  of  traitors, 
Issued  from  the  burning  crater, 
"With  huge  and  hoary,  horrid  hight, 
And  horrid  horns,  to  goad  or  gore  ; 
And  high  above  the  Rebel  ring, 
Up-looni'd  the  the  traitor  Rebel  king, 
"With  raven-dyed,  expanded  wing, 
And  eyes  !   that  did  the  darkness  pore. 
Then  with  ail  his  hellish  hatred, 
Thundered  forth  his  lying  lore, 
Of  "  Union,  never,  nevermore." 

Quick  to  their  haunts  the  demons  went, 
By  the  old  arch  fiend  seeming  sent, 
Who  for  his  minions  on  the  earth 
Did  treason's  thunders  still  outpour, 
And  still  with  Rebel  hatred  foul, 
He  uttered  forth  his  hounded  howl, 
'Gainst  freedom,  too,  a  grumbling  growl, 
Till  all  their  songs  one  burden  bore, 
The  dirges  of  their  fallen  hopes, 
This  melancholy  burden  bore, 
Of  "  Nigger,  nigger,  evermore." 


116 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  DEPOT,  OR  WHAT  CAME  OF 
A  KISS, 

A  true  legend  of  life  and  love  in  the  late  war. 

INTRODUCTION   AND   NARRATIVE. 

When  clouds  of  rebellion  the  zenith  o'ercast, 

Begloom'd  the  political  sky, 
And  the  lowering  pall  of  dark  ages  past 

Seem'd  again  to  hover  on  high ; 
It  seem'd  like  the  pall  of  a  national  shroud, 
And  the  prating  of  treason  was  vauntingly  proud, 

A  barbarous  relic  Columbia  had  curs'd, 
The  eagle  had  borne  from  his  birth, 

Then  sailed  among  storm-clouds  ready  to  burst, 
Threat'ning  floods  of  blood  to  the  earth ; 

The  barbarous  sequence  of  ignorance  of  old, 

'Gainst  the  aegis  of  freedom  their  thunderings 
roll'd. 

When  Freedom  was  marsh'ling  her  forces  to  save 

Her  barque  from  the  blood-crimson'd  wave, 
That  the  hopes  of  mankind  by  the  curse  of  the 

slave, 

Be  not  buried  in  th'  gloom  of  the  grave  ; 
And  storms  like  the  whirlwind  were  gathering 

o'er, 
And  th'  threat'ning  thunders  of  battle  did  roar, 


117 

A  regiment  had  filed  into  a  Western  depot, 

Awaiting  the  train  soon  to  start; 
Then  the  train  backing  in,  the  whistle  did  blow, 

Sent  a  thrill  through  friends  then  to  part. 
The  train  was  to  bear  them  from  friends  far  away, 
"  To  armies  confronting  in  deadly  array." 

*'           T_f 

The  whistle  impatiently  bid  them  depart ; 

There  were  sobs,  and  blessings,  and  tears, 
There  was  wringing  of  hands  and  wringing  of 
hearts, 

For  parting  and  anguish  of  fears ; 
The  parting  of  wife  from  husband  or  brother, 
From  father  or  sister,  or  lover  or  mother. 

A  youth,  Corporal  Walter  Evermond,  stood 

Aloof,  on  his  musket  he  leaned ; 
A  seeming  spectator  in  sad,  thoughtful  mood, 

Surveying  the  heart-rending  scene. 
No  father,  or  mother,  or  sister  he  had, 
Or  brother  or  lover  to  make  him  feel  sad. 

Thus  spake  the  hero,  but  a  tear  fill'd  his  eye : 
"I  am  glad  I  have  no  one  to  mourn; 

Oh  !  how  hard  it  would  be  to  bid  them  good-by, 
And  from  their  embrace  be  torn  ; 

And  yet,  oh  !  how  happy,  I  envy  the  bliss, 

To  bear  to  the  army  just  one  parting  kiss." 


118 

"  I  'll^kiss  you,  if  you'll  let  me,"  one  said  with  a 

smile, 

And  he  felt  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
He  turned,  and  his  heart  with  throbbing  most 

wild 

"Was  fill'd,  and  thrill'd  with  the  charm. 
"  O  !  thank  you,  dear  Miss,  if  I  dare  so  to  speak," 
And  the  tear  o'er  the  kiss  then  roll'd  down  his 
cheek. 

"Bless  you,  dear  Sir,"  with  a  voice  sweetly  hush'd 

Said  the  angel  with  transcendent  grace. 
Amid  tears  and   smiles,  and  the  maid's  modest 

blush, 

He  look'd  in  her  angelic  face. 
"With  an  electrical  thrill  he  press'd  her  sweet 

hand, 
When  "  Fall  in,  fall  in,"  came  the  cruel  command. 

The  parting  then  over,  the  friends  slowly  turned 
In  sadness  their  steps  toward  home  ; 

Each  heart  its  own  sorrow  of  sadness  then  learned, 
Felt  its  lot  so  lornful  and  lone. 

The  angel  of  the  depot  homeward  then  hied, 

As  a  cowardly  lover  walk'd  by  her  side. 

"  Nellie  Preston,  I  am  astonished  at  you," 
John  Gainsford  to  Nellie  then  said. 


119 

"Ah  !  astonished,  indeed !  why,  what  did  I  do  ?" 

With  an  archly  toss  of  her  head. 
"  "What  did  you  think  of,  my  lib'ral  young  Miss, 
There  in  the  depot  that  fellow  to  kiss  ?" 

"  I  thought,"  said  Nellie,  "  he  might  be  a  boy 

"Without  e'en  mother  or  sister. 
So  it  seems  it  does  your  feelings  annoy ; 

Never  mind,  my  jealous  young  mister ; 
O,  I  can  get  into  my  carriage  myself; 
Never  mind,  my  jealous  young  cowardly  elf." 

Two  days  of  sadness  had  draggingly  past, 
For  Nellie  had  parted  with  "  brother." 

The  gloom  of  the  loneness  the  fam'ly  o'ercast, 
Thus  added  to  insult  of  lover . 

Judge  Preston's  only  son  a  captain  had  went, 

Their  course  in  the  cars  to  the  conflict  now  bent. 

Judge  Preston  then  call'd  his  daughter  to  his  side, 

And  thoughtfully,  soberly  said : 
"Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  soon  be  a 
bride, 

Your  life  to  John  Gainsford's  to  wed  ?  " 
"  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  not  be  his  wife, 
Dear  father,"  she  said,  "  not  for  money  or  life. 

I  never  did  him  love,"  she  said,  with  a  smile, 
"And  I  would  not  wed  him  for  life." 


120 

Said  the  judge :  "  I  approve  your  decision,  dear 

child, 

'Tis  the  end,  not  beginning  of  strife  ; 
I  am  free  to  confess  it  pleases  my  mind, 
Since  to  his  sister  he's  ungentle,  unkind." 

THE  YOUNG  HERO'S    THOUGHTS  AS    HE  GOES  TO  THE 
FRONT. 

The  train  had  roll'd  far  out  of  sight, 
Her  freight  for  freedom  sought  the  fight ; 
Ere  many  roods  the  rollers  roll'd, 
An  image  thrill'd  young  Walter's  soul, 
An  image,  like  the  knights  of  old, 
Was  near  his  heart  to  make  him  bold ; 
The  angel  of  the  depot  smiled, 
The  soldier's  woes  with  joy  beguiled. 

He  then  resolved,  whate'er  beside 
His  soldier  life  should  e'er  betide, 
That  parting  kiss  he'd  ne'er  disgrace, 
Nor  bring  a  blush  to  that  sweet  face ; 
The  kiss  which  flush'd  his  burning  cheek 
Should  for  the  donor  honor  seek, 
E'en  though  the  daughter  of  a  king, 
The  kiss  should  ne'er  its  donor  sting. 

Thus  to  the  wars  the  soldier  goes, 
And  dreaming  e'en  before  his  foes, 


121 

The  image  looms  before  his  mind, 
He  fights  for  her  he  leaves  behind ; 
And  through  the  battle's  bloody  strife 
He  thinks  of  honor  more  than  life; 
To  high  resolves  the  fancy  leads 
"  To  dare  and  do  in  noble  deeds." 

In  freedom's  "  coat  of  mail  "  bedight, 
Thus  like  the  olden  feudal  knight, 
He  wages  war  and  bravelyjights 
For  womanhood  and  manhood's  rights  ; 
"While^Justice'whets  his  wreaking  steel, 
Before  the  image  meekly  kneels 
"  The  warrior,  who  so  sweetly  feels, 
Freedom's  goddess,  his  soldier  shield. 

Thus  to  the  wars  the  warriors  go, 
Cheer'd  by  the  image,  meet  the  foe, 
For  freedom  strike  the  fatal  blow, 
Nor  deign  nor  dare  to  feel  the  woe 
Of  victims  'neath  his  steel  had  bent, 
Or  by  the  leaden  Minnie  sent; 
Humanity  he  casts  aside, 
"  "While  ebbs  and  flows  the  crimson  tide." 

And  high  above  the  weaker  feeling, 
The  hero  to  his  image  kneeling, 
Then  steels  his  heart  by  bravery's  mail, 

Nor  deigns  to  feel  the  weakling's  wail, 
11 


122 

Bat  feels  that  for  her  own  dear  sake 
He'd  scorn  the  faggots  of  the  stake, 
Or  wade  the  floods  of  blood  and  lire, 
To  gratify  her  heart's  desire. 

And  as  the  mystic  image  leads, 
E'en  'gainst  the  foaming,  fiery  steeds, 
Whose  necks  are  clothed  with  wreaking  thun 
der, 

Nor  heeds  the  corses  crushing  under, 
But  charges  through  the  crimson  wave, 
Where  fiery  hoofs  the  Sowings  lave, 
Nor  stops  until  the  tide  doth  turn, 
And  vanquished  Rebs  his  prowess  learn. 

Thus  to  the  wars  young  Walter  went, 
By  freedom's  goddess  bless'd  and  sent ; 
Not  alone  his  cheek,  his  soul  now  burning, 
Heroic  heat,  with  glory  yearning, 
Now  fills  the  hero's  swelling  soul,   ; 
To  burst  the  bans  of  mortal  mold, 
An  immortal  flame  to  burn  below, 
Lit  by  the  angel  of  the  depot. 

NELLIE   AND   HER   FATHER  AT   HOME  WITH  GOOD  NKWS. 

Ere  many  months  had  roll'd  around, 
Of  weary  nights  and  slothful  days, 
Faint  echoes  of  the  battle's  sound, 


123 

Re-echoed  from  the  bloody  frays  ; 
The  maiden  in  her  midnight  dreams, 

In  visions  saw,  and  felt,  and  heard 
The  lowering  pall,  the  dazzling  gleams 

Of  thund'ring  war,  her  heart  bestirr'd. 

A  fair  young  corporal  always  stood, 

And  in  her  fancy  braved  the  storm 
Of  leaden  hail  and  crimson'd  flood, 

"Which  flowed  around  her  hero  warm. 
That  fatal  kiss  her  heart  had  stolen, 

The  hero  had  borne  it  far  away  ; 
Her  sodden  breast  with  sighs  was  swollen, 

Her  seething  heart  had  gone  astray. 

One  sad  evening,  while  "  brother  "  claim'd 

A  sister's  love  and  hopeful  thought, 
Her  father  with  the  paper  came ; 

"  Good  news,"  he  said,  "  the  columns  bro't.' 
Then  bending  o'er  the  trembling  sheet, 

"With  heaving  breast  and  throbbing  head, 
With  trembling  voice,  but  accents  sweet, 

The  thrilling  news  she  haply  read. 

"  Captain  Preston  for  four  long  hours 

Was  exposed  to  a  furious  fire ; 
Firmly  he  stood  with  heroic  power, 

"Which  even  his  foes  did  admire ; 


124 

At  last  he  was  driven  to  the  river, 
'Driven  down  the  bank  at  Ball's  Bluff".' " 

Here  nerves  and  the  paper  did  quiver, 
Such  news  to  her  nerves  was  enough. 

"Where  comrades  had  fallen  with  wounds, 

Was  trying  to  relieve  of  their  woe, 
His  fate  seem'd  seal'd  and  already  doom'd, 

Was  surrounded  from  hope  by  the  foe. 
A  sergeant  (by  recent  promotion) 

Then  sprang  to  his  captain's  assistance, 
And  with  his  heroic  devotion 

Soon  quieted  Rebel  resistance. 

"Three  Rebels  then  soon  'bit  the  dust,' 

By  the  sergeant's  young  heroic  hand, 
Who  with  revolver  and  heroic  trust 

Laid  them  bleeding  in  death  in  the  sand; 
Then  help'd  his  captain  over  the  stream, 

Who  just  had  received  a  deep  wound, 
Swimming,  he  held  revolver  between, 

Threat'ning  others  with  similar  doom. 

"  Safely  they  reach'd  the  opposite"shore, 
The  captain,  though  bleeding  and  weak, 

With  wound  in  his  arm,  painful  and  sore, 
Though  not  fatal,"  the  paper  did  speak. 

"  Heaven  bless  the  sergeant,"  Nellie  then  said ; 
"  God  bless  him,"  the  father  replies ; 


125 

"  May  heaven's  blessings  crown  his  dear  head/' 
They  both  said  with  tears  in  their  eyes. 

Then,  in  the  night,  a  curious  thought 

Came  creeping  into  Nellie's  mind  ; 
With  such  strange  freaks  our  nature 's  fraught, 

Love's  mystic  life  of  all  mankind  ; 
She  wished  the  sergeant  was  a  corporal, 

As  yet  the  truth  she  had  not  learned, 
And  as  our  angel  was  yet  mortal, 

The  kiss  had  lit  a  flame  which  burned. 

And  then  she  wondered  how  he  did, 

That  manly,  fair-faced,  bright-eyed  boy, 
Till  sleep  had  closed  the  languid  lids, 

And  then  she  dream'd  of  love  and  joy. 
Ere  long  from  George  a  letter  came — 

Told  of  the  battle's  bloody  strife : 
"A  sergeant  (Evermond  by  name), 

His  own  had  risk'd,  to  save  his  life. 

"  And  but  for  him  you'd  have  no  son, 

And  Nellie  would  have  no  brother ; 
For  ere  the  bloody  work  was  done, 

He  piled  three  Rebs  upon  each  other." 
Confirming  what  the  paper  told 

About  his  friend,  and  even  more, 
Who  plunged  into  the  stream  so  bold, 

Had  borne  him  safely  to  the  shore. 


126 


AT   THE   FRONT — JOKES   AND   SENTIMENT. 

Both  the  friends  received  promotion, 
As  winter  months  did  wear  away, 
"Which  sometimes  doth  in  part  repay 

Such  noble  daring,  devotion. 

The  captain  was  a  major  then, 
And  the  sergeant  was  a  captain, 
And  many  jokes  between  them  cracken, 

Served  pastime  pleasure  for  the  friends. 

"How  is  your  angel?"  the  major  said, 
One  evening  by  the  camp  fires  bright, 
"And  did  you  dream  again  last  night?  " 

But  the  captain,  sighing,  dropp'd  his  head. 

Then  did  the  joker  half  deride; 

Said,  "  Does  her  image  lead  you  still, 
A  willing  captive  at  her  will?" 

Again  he  dropp'd  his  head  and  sighed. 

The  subject  was  too  near  his  heart 
To  lightly  treat  with  bandi'd  joke, 
Or  parry  off  the  playful  stroke, 

In  jesting  art  to  play  his  part. 


127 

Thus  the  unsuspecting  brother, 

Not  knowing,  cracks  his  waggish  jokes, 
While  at  his  friend  the  puns  he  pokes 

About  his  sister  and  her  lover. 

The  serious  captain  then  replied : 
"  "Well,  major,  if  your  passion  *s  sated 
By  waggish  fancy  thus  created, 

And  if  you  will  not  thus  deride, 

"  I'll  tell  you  of  my  mystic  life, 
Nor  deign  nor  dare  to  hide  the  truth, 
The  fire  which  makes  heroic  youth 

To  stand  amid  the  bloody  strife. 

"  That  thrilling  touch  of  hand  and  cheek, 
Like  lightning  throbs  my  inmost  heart, 
"Whose  strings  still  play  the  mystic  part, 

By  angel  fingers  touch'd  so  sweet. 

"  And  tho'  but  once  I  saw  her  face, 
A  glimpse  and  touch  of  form  and  soul, 
'Twas  more  she  seem'd  than  mortal  mold, 

Angelic  beauty,  love  and  grace. 

"  Her  image  doth  before  me  stand, 
And  hath  through  many  dangers  led, 
My  cold  and  hunger  warmed  and  fed, 

Or  beckoned  with  assuring  hand. 


128 

"  This  cheering  light  has  led  me  through, 

All  that  I  am  to  her  is  due, 

Of  honor,  truth  and  valor  too, 
Which  makes  me  strong  to  '  dare  and  do.' " 

HOME     AGAIN 

The  friends  of  home,  with  anxious  care, 
Through  tedious  nights  and  weary  days, 

Again  were  filled,  for  tidings  came 
Of  other  hard-fought,  bloody  frays. 

Yorktown,  "Williamsburg  and  Fair  Oaks 
Were  fought,  and  many  heroes  fell ; 

The  lists  of  killed  and  wounded  lagg'd, 
Delayed  the  nervous  news  to  tell. 

At  length  a  letter  came  from  George, 

Was  badly  wounded,  but  his  life 
Again  was  spared,  for  other  fields} 

To  combat  in  the  bloody  strife. 

"  Our  colonel  was  stricken  down,"  he  wrote, 
"When  first  the  bloody  fray  commenced, 

At  Fair  Oak's  field  I  took  command, 
And  charged  the  foe  to  drive  him  thence. 

"  Was  following  Howard's  gallant  lead, 

When  a  Minnie  ball  pass'd  through  my  thigh, 


129 

I  then  grew  dizzy,  weak  and  faint, 
As  Captain  Evermond  just  pass'd  by. 

"  Had  only  time  th'  command  to  turn 
(As  onward  to  the  front  he  dashed), 

Into  his  hands,  our  noble  regiment, 
When  came  the  final  charge  and  clash. 

"  Amid  the  gallant  charge  and  strife, 
Our  brave  young  captain  took  command, 

And  like  heroi^veterans  led, 

His  honors  held  with  steady  hand." 


THE  CHARGE. 

"  Then  on  and  on  he  charged  and  press' d, 
With  flaming  line,  the  melting  foe ; 

And  many  a  Rebel's  haughty  crest 
Did  fall  beneath  his  fatal  blow. 

"  Inspired  by  his  noble  bearing, 

The  heroic  spirit  by  him  tired, 
His  men  in  *  deeds  of  noble  daring/ 

In  prowess  vied,  while  foes  retired. 

"  And  on  they  charged,  thro'  grape  and  shell, 

Nor  heedful  of  their  lessened  number, 
While  through  the  warring  welkins  swell'd 

The  music  of  the  battle's  thunder. 
12 


180 

"  Then  roll'd  the  wave,  like  ware  of  old, 

Over  the  corses  of  the  slain  ; 
Like  epic  numbers  grandly  roll'd, 

The  battle's  din,  athwart  the  plain. 

"  Nor  heedful  of  the  crimson'd  wave, 
Nor  of  the  cannon's  flaming  flash, 

Nor  of  the  fallen,  bleeding  brave, 
But  forward,  onward  still  they  dash'd. 

"  Through  storms  of  lead  ana  iron  hail, 
And  howling  missiles  through  the  air, 

Freedom's  prowess  again  prevaii'd, 
Her  prestige  press'd,  and  held  it  there. 

"  The  conflict  then  was  hand  to  hand 
Over  a  battery  which  was  taken. 

I  saw  our  colors  proudly  stand 
Over  the  guns  by  Rebs  forsaken. 

"  As  I  was  borne  from  oft'  the  field, 
I  heard  the  shout  of  victory  swell, 

The  battle  won  by  Freedom's  zeal, 
Was  led  by  Captain  Walter  well. 

"  Then  to  our  quarters,  late  at  night, 
Our  young  hero  was  bleeding  brought, 

With  wounds  received  while  in  the  fight, 
With  trophies,  too,  which  bravery  bought.' 


131 


Again  the  slowly  dragging  time 

Of  days  and  nights,  through  anxious  weeks, 
Steals  by  before  the  thrilling  line 

The  letter's  destination  seeks. 

At  last  it  comes,  and  brings  the  joy  : 
"  Dear  Nellie,  I  am  coming  home, 

On  furlough,  soon,  for  forty  days, 
To  cheer  the  household  long  so  lone. 

"The  captain  with  me's  coming  too, 
For  both  our  wounds  are  doing  well." 

'Twas  then  a  thrilling  thought  flash'd  through 
Her  mind,  and  did  her  bosom  swell. 

It  came  and  went,  and  came  and  went, 
And  haunted  her  in  midnight  dreams; 

She  knew  full  well  what  feelings  meant, 
And  yet  her  doubts  still  intervened. 

Again  she  wish'd  he  was  a  corporal ; 

And  then  she  felt  it  was  him  still ; 
Hope  and  fear,  the  lot  of  mortals, 

Her  heaving  heart  did  throb  and  thrill. 

The  journey  home  was  long  and  sore; 

Our  wounded  heroes  stood  it  well; 
Were  going  to  their  homes  once  more, 

Where  love  and  friendship  happ'ly  dwell. 


132 


THE   MAJOR'S   ARRIVAL. 

At  three  o'clock  arrived  the  train, 
And  Major  Preston  hobbling  came 
Upon  his  crutches  from  the  cars, 
"  The  wounded  warrior  from  the  wars." 
The  old  judge  went  with  joy  to  meet  him, 
And  with  open  arms  to  greet  him  ; 
But  ere  he  meets  his  son,  he  hears 
The  echoes  of  the  rousing  cheers, 
Which  swelling,  start  the  big  proud  tears ; 
Proud,  swelling  tears  of  love  and  joy, 
For  his  own  noble,  gallant  boy. 

Poor  Nellie,  she  had  not  come  down, 
Although  the  carriage  came  from  town. 
"Where  is  your  friend?"  the  judge  then  said. 
"Here's  the  carriage;  come,  come  up, Ned." 
"  O,  he'll  be  with  us  yet  to-day  : 
Stopp'd  with  a  friend  upon  the  way ; 
He's  coming  in  the  evening  train — 
The  carriage  must  come  down  again." 
Thus  did  the  conversation  run 
Between  the  father  and  the  son. 

NELLIE   AND   HER   BROTHER. 

A  joyful  moment  Nellie  had, 
No  longer  now  with  feelings  sad  ; 


133 

She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
Nor  cared  her  sister's  love  to  check ; 
To  brother  gave  a  sister's  kiss, 
And  joyful  in  fraternal  bliss. 
She  knew  how  well  she  loved  him  then, 
And  kiss'd  o'er  and  o'er  again. 
Then  many  questions  she  did  ask 
About  the  wars  and  thrilling  past. 

But  first  she  asked,  "  How  is  your  friend 
"Who  nobly  did  your  life  defend  ? 
The  captain — I  hope  he's  not  old, 
Nor  ugly,  for  he 's  brave  and  bold, 
And  I  do  want  to  love  him  too, 
Because  he  risk'd  his  life  for  you. 
His  heart  must  be  so  kind  and  true, 
And  soul  so  great  *  to  dare  and  do.' ' 
Thus  the  sister  asked  her  brother, 
First  about  her  unknown  lover. 

"  Not  old,"  he  said  then,  as  be  smiled, 
"  Nor  ugly  either,  is  he  styled ; 
But  a  curious  circumstance 
Of  soldier  life,  which  does  enhance 
The  interest  of  his  history — 
With  swelling  tears  he  told  it  me— 
For  after  the  Ball's  Bluff  affair, 
We  did,  like  brothers,  secrets  share. 


134 

* 

He  is  without  a  father,  mother, 
An  orphan,  without  sister,  brother. 
At  six  o'clock  he  will  be  here, 
And  make  acquaintance,  Nellie,  dear. 

"  He  has  a  splendid  education, 

Fitting  him  for  any  station. 

By  an  old  aunt  he  was  thus  blessed, 

Who  train'd  him  for  the  sacred  desk. 

His  mind  did  not  then  lead  that  way, 

And  he,  like  others,  went  astray. 

He  then  commenced  to  study  law, 

But  the  old  lady  pick'd  a  flaw, 

Turn'd  plaintiff,  and  withdrew  her  favor, 

At  what  she  thought  such  sad  behavior. 

"  And  then  he  thought  he  would  enlist, 

His  bleeding  country  to  assist ; 

Enlisted  in  my  company, 

A  private  then,  so  bold  and  free. 

"While  we  waited  in  the  depot, 

Ere  we  did  start  to  face  the  foe  ; 

Aloof  from  all  the  rest  he  stood, 

With  sad  and  thoughtful  mind  and  mood, 

And  gazed  upon  the  heartfelt  scene, 

Of  weeping,  blessing  friends,  it  seems. 

"  And  then  this  thought  pass'd  thro'  his  brain, 
That  he  was  spared  from  all  the  pain 


135 

Of  parting ;  but  with  tearful  eye 
He  said  aloud,  with  heaving  sigh, 
1  And  yet  I  envy  the  sweet  bliss 
Just  to  bear  front  one  parting  kiss.' 
Then  in  a  moment  a  young  girl 
Did  set  his  feelings  all  awhirl. 
She  came  and  kiss'd  him  on  the  cheek, 
And  tears  of  joy  did  make  him  weep. 

"  Had  hardly  time  to  press  her  hand — 
'  Fall  in,  fall  in,'  came  the  cammand. 
That  girl  did  do  a  glorious  deed, 
An  act  so  kind  in  time  of  need. 
He  says  the  mem'ry  of  that  face 
And  kiss  has  made  him  win  the  race 
Of  honor  in  the  battle-field, 
Which  like  a  guardian  angel's  shield, 
To  high  resolves  his  soul  did  lead, 
*  To  dare  and  do  in  noble  deeds.' 

"  Within  himself  that  he  had  sworn, 
While  on  the  cars  toward  battle  borne, 
The  confidence  in  that  sweet  face 
Should  ne'er  with  blushes  meet  disgrace 
Because  she  volunteer'd  the  kiss, 
And  turn'd  his  sadness  into  bliss ; 
That  kiss  which  flush'd  young  manhood's  cheek 
Should  for  the  donor  honor  seek; 


130 

E'en  though  the  daughter  of  a  king, 
The  kiss  should  ne'er  its  victim  sting/' 

NELLIE'S  FEELINGS  CONFIRMED. 

"  You  said  he  was  a  private  then  ?  " 
As  turning  pale,  she  asked  again. 
"  O,  no,  he  was  a  corporal  then, 
The  noblest  of  my  noble  men. 
Yes,  first  a  private  he  was,  true, 
Then  a  corporal,  with  stripes  of  two — 
He  was  promoted  then,  you  see, 
And  next  he  wore  the  stripes  of  three ; 
But,  mercy,  dear,  why  look  so  pale  ? 
I  thought  to  cheer  you  by  the  tale !  " 

"  Oh  !  me — what  dreadful,  thrilling  things  ! 
Yet  happy  news  which  brother  brings," 
She,  whispering,  said  ;  nor  did  he  know 
What  made  her  color  come  and  go— 
First  like  the  lily,  white  as  snow, 
Then  blushing  like  rose's  blow. 
Her  heaving  breast  and  throbbing  heart, 
She  hid  with  all  a  woman's  art, 
Nor  once  he  thought  nor  dream'd  the  bliss, 
'Twas  her  who  gave  the  angel's  kiss. 


137 

5 

2 

WALTER'S  ARRIVAL  AND  NELLIE'S  FEELINGS. 

The  sun  had  sank  into  the  west, 

And  golden  tintings  capp'd  the  crest 

Of  foliage  on  the  distant  hills, 

Beyond  the  town  and  old  brown  mills, 

"Which  nestling  by  the  rippling  rills, 

The  flowing  horn  of  plenty  fills. 

The  husbandman  no  longer  tills, 

Goes  homeward  from  the  field  he  drills; 

For  now  the  balmy  dew  distills, 

'Mid  sad,  sweet  song  of  whippowils. 

Hark  !  hear  the  trembling,  screaming  shrills, 

The  locomotive  whistle  thrills ; 

It  swells,  and  fills,  and  thrills  her  heart 

And  trembling  frame  in  ev'ry  part. 

'Twas  six  o'clock,  and  STellie's  heart 
Was  panting  like  the  hunted  hart. 
Sped  from  the  parlor  to  her  room, 
She  fear'd,  and  yet  she  lov'd,  her  doom. 
Twice  she  tried  to  tell  her  brother 
That  he  was  her  own  true  lover ; 
Twice  her  trembling  feelings  failed  her. 
Rising,  throbbing,  heart-thumps  quail'd  her ; 
'Mid  joy  and  fear  she  walk'd  her  room — 
The  leaping  heart  now  loved  its  doom. 


138 

What  should  she  do,  how  should  she  meet  him  ? 

"With  what  becoming  language  greet  him  ? 

Words  of  welcome  she  might  utter, 

But  her  heart  in  such  a  flutter, 

It  would  not,  could  not  then  be  still 

(This  time  it  braves  the  woman's  will). 

It  will  not,  dare  not  now  dissemble, 

Thrills  at  the  thought,  no  longer  single. 

Hark !  hear  the  door-bell,  tingle,  tingle  ; 

Oh  !  how  her  heart-strings  tremble,  tremble  ! 

Before  the  door-bell  ceased  to  ring, 
The  captain's  arm  within  a  sling, 
In  stepp'd,  was  welcomed  by  his  friend 
On  crutches,  who  then  did  attend. 
The  old  judge  too  had  welcomed  him, 
Before  our  hero  had  stepp'd  in, 
For  he  had  brought  him  from  the  cars, 
1  Our  wounded  hero  from  the  wars,' 
And  filial  feelings  had  begun, 
Was  welcom'd  like  another  son. 


INTRODUCTION   SCENE. 

But  where  was  Nellie  ?    Th'  bell  was  rung, 
The  servant  up  the  steps  had  sprung  ; 
After  the  hart  they  went  in  quest, 
To  bring  her  to  the  welcome  guest. 


139 

At  length  she  came,  blushing,  trembling, 
Throbbing,  thrilling,  yet  dissembling. 
"  Nellie,  my  sister,"  George  cried  then  ; 
"  Walter  Evermond,  our  dear  friend." 
The  captain,  in  his  gayest  mood, 
Stepp'd  forward  as  she  gazing  stood 
With  half  extended  hand — he  stopp'd 
As  quick  as  though  he  had  been  shot ! 

"  Good  angels,  sir,  Oh  !  what  is  this?  " 

He  cries  amid  his  frenzied  bliss. 

"  This  your  sister?  my  angel;  Miss, 

Excuse  me,  do  you  mind  that  kiss  ?  " 

She  stifled  then  her  heart-throbs  wild, 

And  put  out  both  her  hands  and  smiled. 

"  Aha  ! "  cried  George,  his  crutches  thumped 

Upon  the  floor  with  many  a  bump. 

"  She  is  your  angel  of  the  depot ; 

What  strange  things  happen  here  below !  " 

"  Ten  thousand  blessings  on  her  head," 
The  brave  young  captain,  weeping,  said. 
"  Lady,"  said  he,  "  you  will  excuse ; 
My  left  hand  you  will  not  refuse." 
Again  the  tear  rolls  down  his  cheek ; 
His  lips  the  angel's  now  doth  seek  ; 
Her  tears  of  joy  do  this  time  start, 
Come  overflowing  from  the  heart ; 


140 

Amid  the  smiles  and  tears  of  bliss, 
He  now  returns  the  long  lent  kiss ! 

"Goodness,  mercy  !  "  exclaimed  the  judge, 
Who  with  amazement  could  not  budge, 
Stood  like  a  statue,  with  surprise, 
He  scarcely  could  believe  his  eyes. 
"This  the  soldier  you  kiss'd,  Nellie, 
In  the  depot  ?  come,  now,  tell  me." 
Again  the  poor  girl  almost  lost 
Her  whirling  mind,  the  question  toss'd. 
She  said,  "  Yes,  sir,"  and  smiled  once  more, 
"  The  captain  and  I  have  met  before." 

THE  EVENING'S  ENJOYMENT. 

When  the  flood  of  their  feelings  began  then  to 

ebb, 
With  the  thumps  of  his  crutch,  the  major  then 

said, 

"  I  have  it,  I  have  it,  and  thus  will  arrange 
The  programme  of  the  meeting,  so  sudden  and 

strange : 

"First,  Nellie's  my  sister,  by  the  right  of  birth, 
And  Walter  's  my  brother,  by  gratitude's  worth, 
So  you  two,  then,  shall  be  sister  and  brother." 
"Capital,"   said    the  judge,  "and    I'll  be  the 
father. 


141 

"And  now  for  enjoyment;  come,  lead  to  a  seat 
Your  sister,  dear  captain,  have  a  tete-a-tete  ; 
"We  will  talk  of  the  times  that  have  *  tried  our 

souls,' 
And  the  hours  of  pleasure  shall  happily -roll." 

Ah !  the  present  was  a  time  that  tried  Nellie's 

soul; 

But  so  blissful  the  trial,  as  sweet  moments  roll, 
That  e'en  late  is  the  hour  before  they  retire, 
So  joyful  were  brothers,  and  sister,  and  sire. 

The  father  and  Nellie  retired  to  rest ; 
The  wounds  of  the  soldiers  each  other  did  dress ; 
The  hands  of  the  major  could  bandage  and  tie, 
The  feet  of  the  captain  could  wait  on  the  thigh. 

"  "We're  at  home,  dear  Walter,"  the  major  then 

said, 

As  the  heroes  together  retired  to  bed  ; 
"  The  happiest  of  times  we'll  have  of  it  now, 
Ere  the  forty  day's  furlough  expires,  I  trow." 

"  I  can  not  stop  long  with  you,"  Walter  then  said, 
As  drawing  a  sigh,  he  again  dropp'd  his  head. 
"  0,  ho  !  "  cried  the  major,  "  I  see  well  enough  ; 
I  know  human  nature  is  made  of  such  stuff. 


142 

"I  now  read  the  sign  by   that  blush  on  your 

face; 

In  the  morning  I'll  help  you  to  find  a  good  place. 
Rest  easy,  dear  captain,  I  bid  you  good-night, 
May  your  dreams  be    happy,  and  lovely,  and 

bright." 

THK    LOVELT    MORMNI;. 

The  brightest  of  mornings  now  lights  up   the 

world, 

The  songsters  of  nature  their  warblings  twirl, 
Thus  training  their  tongues  to  the  tune  of  the 

time, 
While  welkins  are  warbling  in  sweet  runic  rhyme. 

The  rivulet  rippling  in  songs  from  the  hills, 
Is  rolling  the  ponderous  wheels  of  the  mills ; 
Thus  filling  the  sack  of  the  mill-going  boy, 
Who  whistles  and  dances  his  praises  of  joy. 

The  damsel  with  milk-pail  goes  tripping  along, 
Charming  the  plow-boy  with  pastoral  song. 
Dewdrops  are  sparkling  o'er  farm-land  and  trees, 
And  flowers  are  nodding  to  coming  of  bees. 

* 

All  nature  is  singing  the  glad  round-de-lay 
Of  praises  to  God  for  the  glorious  day. 


143 

Again  to  his  tilling  or  drilling  he  hies, 
The  husbandman,   humming  his   hymn   of  the 
skies. 

The  sweet,  lovely  morning,  so  glorious  and  bright, 
Is  throbbing  the  pulses  of  love  and  delight. 
With   thanksgiving    praises  "the  welkin    doth 

ring" 
To  Him  who  from  chaos  the  morning  did  bring. 

'Tis  love  that  lights  up  the  life  of  the  morning, 
Love  sees  the  beauties  of  nature's  adorning ; 
Yes,  love  lies  longing  on  hymen's  sweet  altar, 
"We  sing  but  the  feelings  of  Nellie  and  Walter. 


A  GOOD  BOARDING  PLACE — THE  SEQUEL. 

When  breakfast  was  over,  George  led  his  sister, 

Into  the  library,  and  when  he  kiss'd  her, 

They  had  a  long  talk,  while  she  wept  and  she 

smil'd 
By  turns,  the  moments  so  sweetly  beguil'd. 

He  came  from  the  library  into  the  hall, 
And  talked  with  his  father,  who  understood  all ; 
Then  met  the  captain,  who  was  in  the  front  room, 
"Friend  Walter,"  then  said  he,  "I'll  tell  you  your 
doom ! 


144 

"  I  have  found  for  you,  sir,  a  good  boarding  place  ; 
I  pledg'd  them  my  honor  you'd  never  disgrace 
The  house ;  to  virtue  you  was  honest  and  true, 
And  that  they  never  should  be  ashamed  of  you. 

"  My  sister's  the  hostess,  my  father's  the  host, 
And  now  your  enjoyment  I  heartily  toast." 
"  Thank  you,  friend  George;  but  then — will  Nel 
lie — will  she  " — 
u  0,  ask  her  yourself,  sir,  you  must  not  ask  me." 

"But  your  father?"   now  comes  another  good 

pun; 

"  He  already  looks  upon  you  as  a  son." 
"  I  don't  know,"  said  Walter,  "  so  strange  it  seems, 
Perhaps  it  is  fancy,  or  only  a  dream  !  " 

"Then  wake  up,   my  friend,"   came  the   next 

friendly  joke, 

But  Walter  ere  this  time  had  fairly  awoke 
To  a  hope,  which  th'  fruits  was  to  cheer  him  thro' 

life, 
The  angel  of  th'  depot  became  soon  his  wife. 

And  now,  my  dear  reader,  our  tale  is  all  told, 
All  about  our  angel,  and  hero  so  bold, 
And  though  it  all  sprang  from  a  kiss,  it  is  true ; 
We  know  that  we're  tired,  and  you  may  be,  too. 


145 


HE  BID  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  OWN  RIGHT  HAND, 

"  In  the  series  of  battles  before  Nashville,  of  which 
Franklin  was  one,  a  young  man  from  one  of  the  Mich 
igan  batteries  was  wounded  in  the  arm  so  severely  that 
amputation  was  necessary.  The  surgeons  administered 
chloroform.  After  recovering  from  its  effects,  he  re 
quested  the  nur&e,  who  was  standing  by,  to  bring  him 
his  right  hand.  When  it  was  placed  before  him,  he 
broke  forth  in  the  following  pathetic  strain  :  '  My  own 
poor  right  hand  !  and  must  we  part  thus,  never  to  meet 
again  ?  For  twenty -three  long  years  you  have  served 
me  faithfully  ;  you  have  never  failed  me  in  the  hour  of 
danger;  you  have  been  raised  only  in  the  cause  of  jus 
tice  and  right,  and  you  have  never  done  a  dishonorable 
act.  But  now  your  work  is  done.  Farewell,  my  own 
right  hand,  farewell.'  Overcome  by  emotion,  he  mo 
tioned  them  to  take  it  away." 

The  din  of  arms  had  ceased  to  war, 
'Twas  silent,  and  the  angel  Death, 

With  sable  wings  seem'd  hovering  o'er, 
And  nature  seem'd  to  hold  her  breath. 

And  many,  many  souls  then  fled 
From  corpses  o'er  the  battle-Held, 

Who  for  the  Union  fell  and  bled, 
For  freedom  faced  the  Rebel  steel. 
13 


146 

And  many  more  on  litters  borne 

By  comrades  from  the  field  of  strife, 

Whose  limbs  werf  broken,  bleeding,  torn, 
Were  yielding  up  e'en  half  their  life. 

'Mong  many  more,  a  bright  young  man, 
Who  had  for  freedom  faced  the  foe, 

Carried  a  bleeding  arm  and  hand, 
And  seeni'd  oppress'd  with  grief  and  woe. 

With  chloroform,  and  scalpel  knife, 
And  saw,  dead  limbs  from  bodies  brake  ; 

Again  he  op'd  his  eyes  to  life, 

With  trembling  tears  and  lip  he  spake. 

"  Bring  hither,  nurse,  my  poor  torn  hand." 
Then  hearts,  tho'  braved  by  blood,  did  swell, 

As  surgeons  and  attendants  stand 
To  hear  him  bid  his  hand  farewell. 

"Farewell,  farewell,  my  own  right  hand, 
And  must  we,  must  we  now  part  thus  ? 

How  hard,  how  hard,  life's  shorter  span, 
For  thee  to  go  before  to  dust. 

"  For  twenty-three  bright  spring-time  years 
Of  life  thou  served  my  wants  so  well ; 

Dispeller  of  my  doubts  and  fears, 
Must  go  with  mother  earth  to  dwell ! 


147 

"  My  own  defense  for  justice,  right, 
Was  ever  raised  for  these  alone  ; 

How  dark  shall  be  life's  evening,  night, 
Since  life's  dependence  now  hath  flown. 

"  Nor  yet  for  self,  alone  to  give 

For  liberty  my  right  hand  up  ; 
How  hard  'twill  be  thro'  life  to  live, 

And  drink  this  soldier's  bitter  cup. 

"  "When  danger  thick  and  fast  assail'd, 
Thou  wert  my  quick  and  sure  defense ; 

But  now  thy  work  is  done — bewail'd 

Shall  be  thy  dirge — to  mourn-  thee  hence.' 

Then  through  his  tears  there  came  a  smile, 
A  joy  to  thrill  the  aching  heart : 

"Dishonor  ne'er  that  hand  defiled ; 

Farewell,  my  own  right  hand,  depart ! " 


VIEWS  AND  THOUGHTS  ON  THE  TOP  OF  KENESAW 
MOUNTAIN,  GA,, 

SHORTLY  AFTER  THE  RETREAT  OP  THE  REBELS. 

From  Kenesaw's  mountain  top,  giddy,  we  gazed 

On  the  foe's  inglorious  retreat ; 
Pressing  his  march  through  the  dim  distant  ways 

Which  led  o'er  the  plain  from  our  feet. 


148 

Those  grey,  motley  lines  are  the  retreating  foe, 
And^those  clouds  the  dust  o'er  his  head  ; 

On  those  well  trodden  ways  from  the  mountain 

below, 
Away  toward  Atlanta  they  tread. 

But  look  at  that  glorious  blue  line,  so  grand, 

Which  marches  away  to  the  right, 
The  heroes  of  Union  from  Liberty's  land, 

Most  sublime  and  soul-thrilling  sight. 

T'ward"that  Rubicon  river"  the  head  columns 
stand, 

And  when  the  Chattahoochee  is  past, 
That  proud  Gate  City  of  the  foe's  haughty  land, 

Atlanta,  thy  die  will  be  cast. 

Then  casting  the  eye  round  the  horizon's  rim, 

The  ethereal  circle  did  lie ; 
The  line  of  dark  azure  in  distance  so  dim, 

Where  earth  seem'd  to  blend  with  the  sky. 

Far  away  to  the  north  the  "Twin  Sisters  "  lie, 

Sleeping  in  the  horizon's  rim, 
Their  bosoms  of  earth  heaving  grandly  and  high, 

Those  mountains  in  distance  BO  dim. 

Far  to  the  north-west  Allegheny's  proud  range 
Of  mountains  loom  up  'long  the  rim, 


149 

Three  great  links  ending  this  grand  mountain 

chain, 
In  enchantment  of  distance  so  dim. 

Next,  "Old  Lookout"  doth   rear  his  towering 
crest, 

With  superior  altitude  high, 
O'erlooking  the  sleepers  in  pride  from  the  west, 

As  he  peers  from  his  point  in  the  sky. 

Still  further  to  the  south,  Lost  mountain  uplooms, 
Her  breast  heaving  smoothly  and  high, 

But  she  seems  in  her  loneness  lost  among  tombs, 
And  breathes  in  her  sadness  a  sigh. 

Then  east  of  Atlanta  the  mountain  of  Stone 
Rears  his  smooth  and  bald  stony  head, 
Which  seems  in  its  sadness  a  monument  cone, 
Which  nature  hath  rear'd  for  the  dead ! 

That  light  line  of  mist  through  the  blue  distant 
haze,- 

Marks  th'  bed  of  the  Rubicon  stream, 
Meandering,  like  Jordan,  the  dark  deathly  waves, 

Through  sandhills  and  lowlands  between. 

Then  thoughts  came  recurring  to  scenes  that  were 

past, 
Just  closed  here,  in  dramas  of  war, 


150 

Where  in  deadly  array  were  armies  en  mass'd, 
The  slumbers  of  mountains  to  mar. 

Here  on  the  mountain  top,  thro'  battle  and  siege, 
Stood  the  foe  so  b  7ghty  and  high, 

While  his  lines  on     »ch  flank,  for  nearly  two 

leagues, 
Long  weeks  in  resistance  did  lie. 

'Mid  thunders  of   battle  that  roll'd  round  the 
mountain, 

And  smoke  that  ascended  on  high, 
And  sulphurous  fumes  forming  aqueous  fountains 

Of  clouds  that  hung  dark  o'er  the  sky. 

Where  daily  and  nightly  the  torrents  of  rain, 

By  battle  augmented,  did  pour, 
And  mingled  their  floods  with  the  blood  of  the 
slain,- 

'Neath  heaven's  artillery's  roar. 

Where  the  bolts  of  the  lightning  of  heaven  did 
dash, 

'Mong  clouds  that  were  rent  thus  asunder, 
And  wars  thus  electric  in  fury  did  flash, 

Did  vie  with  artillery's  thunder. 

And  as  peal  upon  peal  of  hoarse  rolling  thunders, 
With  cannon  did  mingle  their  roaring, 


151 

So  sublime  and  awful  in  grand  epic  numbers, 
Seem'd  songs  pantheistical  pouring. 

Round  this  thunder  scarr'd  brow  of  Kenesaw's 

summit,  .   , 

The  missiles  of  freedom      *  fly, 
While  from  black  mouths  o/  treason  poured  fiery 

vomit, 
Dooming  heroes  for  freedom  to  die. 

Where  the  smoke  of  the  battles  rose  up  to  the 

clouds, 

Which  in  grandeur  sublimely  did  roll, 
And  spread  their  dark  curtains  like  rent,  sable 

shrouds, 
O'er  corses  just  yielding  the  soul. 

Where  the  blood  which  flowed  freely  for  freedom 

did  swell 

The  rills  that  rolPd  down  from  her  side, 
While  thunders  of  heaven  and  guns  rolFd  the 

knell, 
And  blood  with  the  flood  roll'd  the  tide. 

'Mid  rumbling,  and  roaring,  and  rushing,  and  rills 
And  blood  which  like  water  did  pour, 

Ran  the  red  rolling  tide  from  blood-crimsoned 

hills, 
All  crimsoned  and  slipp'ry  with  gore. 


152 

Those  hills  round  the  base  of  the  mountain  were 

red 

With  blood  which  for  freedom  did  flow ; 
"Where  heroic  souls  from  the  now  mould'riug 
dead 

Came  up  from  the  battles  below. 

« 

Ye  hills  and  ye  mountains,  now  sacred  to  fame, 
By  wars  that  have  raged  round  your  sides, 

And  sacred,  ye  rills,  from  the  patriot's  name, 
"Whose  blood  with  your  floods  rolled  the  tides. 

All  sacred,  ye  smooth-trodden  swards  of   the 
plain, 

"Where  patriots  fought,  bled  and  fell ; 
And  sacred,  ye  mouldering  mounds  of  the  slain, 

"Where  heroes  breath'd  earth  their  farewell ! 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  FALLEN  HERO, 

Adjutant  Recce,  of  the  54th  O.  V.  V.  I.,  was  killed  at 
Kenesaw  Mountain,  Georgia,  on  the  27th  of  June, 
1864.  He  was  one  of  those  rarely  gifted  sons  of  hu 
manity  who  had  a  faculty  of  making  friends  of  all, 
and  of  retaining  their  friendship,  and  increasing  it  to 
love.  Honesty  of  purpose,  charity,  and  firmness  of 
disposition,  with  an  affable  and  courteous,  yet  dignified, 


158 

deportment,  with  true  bravery,  all  combined  to  make 
him  one  of  those  heroes  who  fell  beloved  by  all. 

'Mong  the  thousands  of  heroes  who  fell  in  the 

war 

For  the  nation,  now  resting  in  peace ; 
'Mong  the  noblest  and  brightest — a  young  rising 

star — 
"Was  our  brave  young  Adjutant  Reece. 

Beneath  frowning  Kenesaw's  old  bloody  brow, 

On  her  base  so  gory  and  red, 
'Mong  thousands  of  martyrs  for  freedom  did  bow 

To  treason  his  death-stricken  head. 

Where  a  host  of  brave  spirits  for  freedom  did 

rise, 

Thro'  storms  that  raged  round  the  mountain, 
From  the  darkness  of  death  to  the  light  o'er  the 

skies, 
To  life  round  the  glorious  fountain. 

So  brave  yet  gentle,  and  with  firmness  so  kind, 
His  sternness  with  love  was  beguiled, 

Magnanimous  and  true  his  intelligent  mind, 
Came  the  order  with  power  as  he  smiled. 

So  upright  and  manly,  confiding  and  true, 
Patriotic,  and  honest,  and  bold ; 
14 


154 

True  heroism  prompted  his  hand  thus  to  do 
Daring  deeds,  that  sprang  from  the  soul. 

Liberty  and  virtue  and  God  in  the  mind, 
Made  him  free,  and  fearless,  and  firm  ; 

His  soul  for  the  woes  of  suffering  mankind 
With  glowing  compassion  did  burn, 

Through  thunders  of  battle  and  clouds  in  the  sky, 

His  heroic  soul  did  arise, 
To  join  the  bright  army  of  heroes  on  high, 

From  a  world  of  tears  and  of  sighs. 

Farewell,  noble  hero,  thou  gloriously  fell, 
For  freedom  thou  spilt  thy  warm  blood, 

While  thunders  of  battle  and   guns   roll'd    thy 

knell, 
Thy  pure  soul  went  up  to  thy  God. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  15TH  A,  C,,  JULY  25,  1864, 
WKST  OF  ATLANTA,  GA. 

We  marcb'd 

"In  the  dim,  greyish  gloaming  at  breaking  of  day," 
Away  from  howling,  crashing  shells  of  thund'ring  cannon 
In  hot  pursuit;  to  confront  in  battle  on  the  right — 
Bidding  adieu  to  the  green  graves  of  dend  comrades, 
Who  fell  fighting  for  freedom,  «nly  fire  days  before. 


155 


Two  leagues — from  left  to  right — thenmarch'd  the  veteran  host, 

Away  from  the  east  to  the  west  of  Atlanta. 

The  columns  of  freedom  had  march'd  till  noon  of  night, 

Then  stretch' d  the  tired  limbs  on  swards  and  slopes  of  hills,  . 

To  seek  in  slumber  rest — to  nerve  them  for  battle. 

All  slept — the  peaceful  slumbers  of  Vet'ran  warriors, 

But  i  n  their  dreams  they  mused  and  thought  of  home  and  friends. 

Some  slept  the  last  sleep,  and  dream'd  the  last  dream  of  earth. 

In  the  dense  and  dismal  darkness,  like  lowering  clouds, 

Sank  the  mist,  and  smoke,  and  sulphur'us  fumes  of  battle, 

Which  days,  and  nights,  and  weeks  had  hung  like  a  pall  o'er 

The  fields  of  the  dead. 

The  radiant  stars  bespangle  not  the  darken'd  sky, 
Nor  doth  the  ray  less  moon  peer  thro'  the  gloomy  pall 
Which  hovers  o'er  the  serried  hosts  of  war  in  slumber — 
And  silence  as  of  death,  in  Midnight's  sable  shroud, 
Envelops  the  hosts,  like  Hades — in  deep  darkness. 
>Tis  like  the  silence  which  forebodes  the  coming  storm, 
When  nature  hoards  the  strength  of  subtile  elements, 
Until  all  the  thunder  forms,  surcharg'd  in  heaven, 
Burst  their  floodgates — then  pour  forth  their  furious  torrents 
Of  hurricane,  hail,  flood,  fire  and  wreaking  thunder. 
Silence  as  of  death  reigned  supreme  through  all  the  hosts, 
Save  where  the  ghostly  picket  crouches  and  watches, 
And  with  painful  eye  tries  to  peer  through  the  darkness, 
And  lists,  but  hears  naught  save  the  throbs  of  his  own  heart. 

Hark! 

Hear  the  trembling  notes  of  the  clarion  bugle  horn, 
Thrilling  in  the  distance,  break  the  dead  solitude. 
Another  and  another  takes  up  the  echo, 
Until  the  reveille  heralds  o'er  the  hill 
A  harbinger  which  tells  of  the  approaching  morn. 
Then  the  drums— a  thousand  drums — roll  the  reveille, 


166 


While  the  screaming  fifes  are  trilling  the  trembling  air. 
Up,  and  up,  in  the  dusky  darkness  loom  the  "  hordes ; '' 
Life,  life  looms  up  o'er  the  swards  of  a  score  of  hills ; 
Human  forms  seem  to  rise  from  the  bosom  of  earth ! 
And  the  hum  of  twice  ten  thousand  human  voices 
Next  supplies  the  din  of  the  thousand  rolling  drums. 
A  camp-fire  on  the  distant  hill  peers  the  darkness, 
Then  another,  and  another,  till  a  thousand 
Fires  through  the  gloom  bedeck,  like  stars,  the  murky  sky. 
The  soldier  soon  dispatches  his  scanty  breakfast; 
The  red  streaks  of  morning  illume  the  murky  cast, 
As  the  sanguine  sun  shows  his  fiery  blood-red  face. 
He  the  lowering  clouds  o'er  Atlanta  paints  with  blood. 
Again  the  serried  columns  are  ready  to  march. 
"Forward,"  comes  the  order,  and  meandering  they  more, 
A  long,  dark,  blue  line,  invincible  for  freedom, 
O'er  the  well-trodden  swards,  plains  and  slopes  of  the  hills, 
Thence  down  ravines,  thro'  the  thickets  and  the  woodland, 
Up  the  steeps  beyond — away  to  the  extreme  right. 
Like  a  great  blue  anaconda,  draws  bis  long  length 
Round  the  west  of  the  doom'd  "Gate  City  of  the  South." 
He  halts  I  and  his  burnish'd  mail,  impervious  to  treason, 
In  sheen  of  liberty,  shines  in  the  Southern  sun. 

Skirmishers 

Now  begin  to  brtak  the  silence  of  the  morning; 
Crack,  crack,  reverberate  the  rifles  'mong  the  hills, 
And  whack,  whack  come  the  whizzing  Minnie's  'mong  the  trees. 
A  howling  cannon  ball  tops  a  tree  o'er  our  heads  ; 
The  fire  of  musketry  becomes  more  onerous; 
Anon  we  are  ordered  to  support  the  skirmishers. 
The  blazing  sun  now  peers  above  the  blood-red  crest 
Of  clouds — floating  high  up  toward  the  meridian. 
Stealthily,  with  steady  step,  we  march  thro'  the  thick  wood, 
To  the  margin  of  the  contested  field  beyond. 


157 

Now,  with  ranks  deploy'd,  we  on  double-quick  advance 
Athwart  the  fiery  field,  where  friends  engage  the  foe. 
"The  skirmish  line  "  and  the  fire  of  the  fight  are  doubled 
Balls  fly  thick  and  fast,  and  men  now  begin  to  fall; 
As  the  sun  hides  his  face  behind  the  crimson  cloud, 
Come  two — double  lines — in  very  scorn  of  our  fire, 
With  flying  flags  and  steady  step,  on,  on  they  come, 
Square  to  the  front,  they  bear  the  brunt  of  ball  and  battle, 
And  come  so  near  that  we  can  hear  their  armor  rattle. 
And  now,  "  Fall  back,  fall  back,"  comes  the  welcome  order. 
Again  the  sun  peers  o'er  the  bloody-crested  cloud, 
And  back  athwart  the  flaming  field  in  haste  we  go  ; 
And  breathless  join  the  Awaiting  line  in  the  rear, 
Who,  like  lions,  crouch  behind  a  hasty  breastwork, 
Awaiting  with  charg'd  muskets  the  approaching  foe. 
Now  comes  the  awful  suspense  vhich  precedes  battle. 
'Tislike  the  nightmare's  stillness  which  forebodes  the  storm. 
In  all  the  horrors  of  bloody  expectation ! 
When  into  minutes  crowd  the  mem'ries  of  a  lifel 
On  comes  the  furious  foe,  flaunting  defiance, 
With  their  flags  of  treason,  in  our  very  faces. 
"Steady,  boys,  steady,"  hold  your  fire  until  he  nears. 

But  hark ! 

Haifa  league  to  the  loft  the  coming  storm  bursts  forth 
And  like  the  roaring,  crashing,  howling  tornado, 
It  sweeps  from  left  to  right,  in  most  awful  grandeur ; 
And  sublimely  flows  the  livid  sheet  of  lightning 
From  beneath  the  curling  clouds  and  smoke  of  battle. 
The  rolling,  wreaking  thunder  shakes  the  very  earth, 
While  the  crashing  trees  are  split  and  torn  asunder. 
The  storm  of  leaden  hail  rattles  among  the  bones 
Of  vaunting  traitors.     The  crimson  flood  begins  to  flow. 
<'  Cease  firing,  cease  firing,"  comes  the  unwelcome  order; 
The  thick  smoke  dissolves,  and  lo!  their  line  has  melted. 


158 


That  line  of  treason  and  slavery — should  it  not  melt? 

The  Lell  of  battle  at  this  point  now  tells  the  car 

Of  a  yet  more  furious  charge  toward  the  left. 

At  length  the  fire  ceases — but  the  lull  is  brief. 

Hist!  hear  the  sound  of  human  TOICCS — hoarse,  hideous 

Angry  shouts — like  demon  voices — far  to  the  front, 

Are  rallying  their  fiendish  hosts  for  another  charge  1 

Chagrin'd  and  angry  chiefs  are,  like  tigers,  lashing 

With  blasphemy,  their  hordes  of  whelps  into  fury. 

Anon  they  come  with  all  the  hate  of  hell  rankling 

With  horrid  rage  in  their  slave-accursed  bosoms. 

With  doubled  and  trebled  lines  they  come  with  vengeance! 

But  with  cool'd  guns  we  await  the  shock  in  silence. 

And  now  upon  the  right  bursts  forth  the  wreaking  storm. 

As  lions  from  their  lairs  up-leap,  and  flash  vengeance 

On  the  threat'ning  foe,  so  do  the  sons  of  freedom 

Shoot  forth  the  lightning  flame  from  within  the  storm-cloud. 

From  right  to  left  now  sweeps  the  angry  battle  storm — 

A  shower  of  leaden  hail  is  pour'd  into  the  foe; 

Their  cloven  ranks  are  quickly  filled,  and  on  they  come — 

Falling,  filling,  yet  charging — on  and  on  they  come  I 

Oh! 

"  Horrors !  water,  water,  the  guns  arc  getting  hot !  " 
Premature  explosions  are  tearing  off  men's  hands! 
The  enemy's  fire  is  dropping  our  men  all  around. 
Water  is  pour'd  upon  the  charge  in  the  seething  barrels, 
And  fired  into  the  very  face  of  the  foo  I 
The  pealing  thunder  of  battle  deafens  the  ear ; 
The  hot  flame  and  smoke  almost  blind  and  suffocate. 
11  Fix  bayonets!  fix  bayonets!  they  are  upon  us  I" 
Bat  their  serried  ranks  have  well  nigh  melted  away — 
The  remnant  of  the  forlorn  hope  come  but  to  fall, 
Or  surrender,  or  be  pitched  headlong  o'er  the  line 
With  the  hot  bayonet.        •        •        • 


159 

Again  and  ugain,  until  the  fifth  time,  they  charge  ; 

Goaded  to  desperation  by  continuous  defeat, 

They  seem  to  be  impell'd  by  the  spirit  of  madness. 

Yes,  "  the  gods  have  made  them  mad  "  for  quick  destruction. 

For  four  long  hours  the  roar  of  battle,  at  some  point, 

Continuous  falls  upon  the  stuun'd-yet  aching  ear. 

At  length  sullen,  with  sunken  hearts,  they  quit  the  field, 

But  leaving  the  crimson'd  ground  strewn  thick  with  the  dead. 

Again  the  battle  is  fought  and  won  by  ^freedom  , 

And  the  crimson'd  capp'd  crests  of  clouds  in  the  west 

Give  tokens  of  fair  times  to-morrow 
While  sinking  to  rest  with  "the  pall'1  o'er  the  breast, 

We  have  visions  of  joy  and  of  sorrow 


ERRATA 

Page  9,  line  11  from  top,  read  muter,  instead  of  "muses." 
Page  9,  line  15  from  top,  read  innature,  instead  of  "of  nature." 
Page  15,  line  1  from  top,  read  muttr,  instead  of  "muses." 
Page  22,  line  14  from  top,  read  founded  the  tocsin,  instead  of 
"sounded  tocsin* 

Page  25,  line  9  from  top,  read  wont,  instead  of  "  unwise." 
Page  81,  line  10  from  top,  read  are  taught,    instead  of  "  our 
thoughts." 

Page  55,  line  5  from  top,  read   thou'rt  mourning,  instead  of 
"  thou'st  mourning. ' 

Page  60,  line  24  from  top,  read  received  it  first,  instead  of  "  re 
ceived  first." 

Page  68,  line  11  from  top,  read  blood  were,  instead  of  "blood 
was."  „ 

Page  78,  line  19  from  top,  read   To  help  him,  instead  of  "To 
him." 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILI1 


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